


Lost in Fallacy

by Whimsical_in_the_Brainpan



Series: All I Have Known [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bullying, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, M/M, Panic Attacks, Social Commentary, tragic backstories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whimsical_in_the_Brainpan/pseuds/Whimsical_in_the_Brainpan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire's motto has always been "it only hurts if you care." Of course, Éponine knows that secretly he's always cared. But it's just easier for him to play the strawman than to actually let himself believe. It's safer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If Found Please Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems as if Fanfiction is not yet done with me! This is my first attempt into the Les Misérables fandom though. I've been a big fan for years, and have seen a ton of different adaptations. And of course, I love the Brick, which I've read a couple of times. As much as I've tried to modernize Les Mis and tell my own stories, I'm hoping to include elements from the book and musical, as well as notable character traits, etc. Let me know how I do, and I hope you enjoy!

When the doorbell unexpectedly rang, Éponine Thénardier burrowed further into the couch cushions and debated not answering it. She had only just returned from a four hour shift in the Writing Center, helping students with their crappy essays, and her editorial homework was still glaring at her from the coffee table less than a foot away. Maybe if she ignored them they would just go away, she thought, and squeezed her eyes closed in hope. 

If it wasn’t the highest paid student job on campus, then she liked to pretend that she’d quit. Days like today, when Éponine had to smile and put up with irritable, Adderall-addled, procrastinating shits, just wore her down until she was too exhausted to begin to think about her own work. After days like today, she would just collapse on the couch with her laptop and her ex-boyfriend’s Netflix account and hiss at anyone who interrupted her. 

When the doorbell rang a second time, she groaned, and threw her shoe at the door, seriously hoping that it wasn’t those douchey frat guys from two buildings down. Or if it was, that they’d get the message.

Only when the soon-to-be dead man started ringing the bell to the tune of Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance,” did Éponine accept that she would have to move. With a groan and several cracks from her back, she stood up, pulled her three inch pocket knife out of her pocket, and headed to the door. Her head already rattling with the noise, she yanked the door open, well aware that she’d left the chain in.

“What?” She snapped irritably.

The boy on the other side of the door didn’t seem fazed in the least by her reaction. He had a sweet face with dark brown hair and a wide smile. He even had the nerve to laugh at her, though not meanly. In any other circumstance, Éponine would’ve even considered it friendly. But he was keeping her from a BBC marathon, so she had every right to hate him on sight. 

“If I’d known I was meeting the hot Writing Center chick, I’d have dressed up more,” the boy said cheekily.

“Wouldn’t have helped,” Éponine shot back dryly, quickly losing patience with him. “Did you want something?”

“Yes! I’ve brought you your drunk,” he replied cheerfully. And it was only then that Éponine noticed the limp body that the boy held in his arms. Immediately, she shut the door, removed the chain, and reopened it to let him in. 

“I like your style, with the dog tag,” he said conversationally as he dragged her roommate and lifetime best friend into the tiny apartment and towards the couch. Éponine sighed, stared at Grantaire’s drunken sleep, and accepted the fact that her peaceful night was over. 

The student was talking about the cheap dog tag necklaces Grantaire and Éponine had both agreed to get when they had started renting this dinky little apartment together. The tags read “If found, please return to” and listed their new address. Since neither could keep track of the other, it was easier this way. 

“Thanks,” Éponine said with a guarded smile, and went to the kitchen to grab the Advil, water, and a wastebasket. “Where’d you find him?”

“As far as I know, he approached us. Us being that student activist group determined to cover the campus with posters,” the boy explained jovially. “He stirred up quite a commotion amongst the ranks bursting in on a conversation about the death penalty, then just turned around and challenged a friend of mine, Bahorel, to a drinking contest. Tiny, wiry thing that he is, none of us thought he’d get so far. Dude’s like a sponge.”

At that, Éponine finally had to laugh. That sounded exactly like the Grantaire she knew, and she was relieved to know that this boy hadn’t just found him on the street and saw him as a cash-in. Grantaire was only slightly below average height, but coupled with that underfed look, he did look much smaller than he should. Even she had an inch on him, and he was never allowed to forget that inch. Of course, she also knew Bahorel. The guy was in a few of her classes, and he was built like a freaking brick wall. The guy had at least a year on Grantaire, and twice the body weight. Convinced that he was just being friendly, Éponine subtly closed the knife and slipped it back into her cargo pants. 

“Well, as far as I know this idiot doesn’t have a political bone in his body, but boy can he argue.”

“Well, he deserves some kind of award in my book. For a second, we all thought he was going to make our noble leader burst a blood vessel. If he could rustle Mr. Yoga-and-Anarchy’s feathers, then he’s welcome to drink with us anytime.”

“I’ll let him know,” she said, before finally holding out her hand and introducing herself. “Éponine.”

“Courfeyrac,” the boy responded with a grin, shaking it. He seemed to sense her exhaustion though, because he mercifully continued. “I should probably head out though, those bastards elected me DD for the night.” 

Again Éponine smiled and let Courfeyrac out, thanking him again for bringing her idiot roommate back. The moment the door shut behind him, she let out a sigh, and plopped down on the one square of couch that Grantaire wasn’t collapsed on, rustling the drunk’s hair playfully. 

That gigantic red couch was probably their one luxury in the world. They had only just barely moved into the questionable little tenement and had been hunting for necessities when Éponine stumbled across it in the store. The cushions practically swallowed them, Grantaire was positive he would never choose to stand up again. The monstrosity could hold at least six people, making it perfect for them, since both were sprawlers. Unfortunately, the price was just as insane as the magic cushions, so Éponine had eventually dragged Grantaire away. 

Then, one day she came back to the apartment after her high school had let out and just found it in the middle of their living room, Grantaire grinning at her from it, his arms out in a “ta da” gesture. How he got it up two flights of stairs and through the door, she never found out. She had just started sobbing right there, because the tenement apartment finally felt like theirs. The drop-out and the runaway had finally found themselves a home. It didn’t matter if their beds were just a mattress pad and an air bed on the ground, or that Grantaire fed them almost exclusively on what he could swipe from the sandwich shop he worked at for the first year and a half. What they’d managed to build here was more than Éponine ever had at home. 

Just as she was about to reach for her laptop, try to ignore Grantaire next to her and watch her Doctor Who, said idiot decided to stir. Instead of just shifting and dozing off, he rubbed at the tight black curls of hair that always hung in his eyes, and tried sitting up. That was it; she finally closed the laptop and slid it back where it belonged, underneath the couch. She was done trying to relax for the night, and would just consider herself lucky if she could get him onto his dinky little mattress pad, and get to sleep. 

“’Ponine?” he asked blearily, the word slurring for one reason or another. His freakishly blue eyes were surrounded with a dulled red, and Éponine could no longer tell the difference between drugs and sleep deprivation. 

“You going to throw up?” she asked with a sigh.

He paused to think it over for a moment, lips pursing tightly in concentration, before nodding and attempting to stand. Éponine helped him to the bathroom, and swept back the thick mess of his hair as he vomited into the toilet. 

“’Ponine, I think I met a fucking god,” he announced drunkenly when he finished. He flushed and stood up, not looking the slightest bit surprised at the water bottle and toothbrush Éponine offered him. He took a long swig of the water, and then plucked his toothbrush from her hands, and made his way to the sink, before continuing. “An actual Greek God lowered from Mount Olympus to shine a light on the world around us.”

Éponine, now sitting on the toilet seat while he brushed, quirked an eyebrow up at him questioningly. To this day, she still regrets reading him that book on Greek heroes back in elementary school. For the next several years afterword, she was worried every time she found him trying to read the Greek mythology books that he would break something in his head. He always wore that angry-looking, concentration scowl, trying to decipher the words. The fifth grade field trip his class took to the museum didn’t help matters. 

“Oh really?” she asked skeptically, just about ready for bed. “A fucking god, or a God of fucking?”

He swatted her on the arm, but she couldn’t really take it as any sort of admonition when he dissolved into giggles over it. 

“A golden God, sculpted from the finest marble. Apollo in all his glory,” Grantaire continued waving his arms wildly to emphasize his words. With the toothbrush in his mouth, she got a lovely view of the contents of his mouth, as did the mirror, since he was too drunk to care about the flecks of toothpaste flying out. 

His eyes shone brightly in a way they hadn't in years, and finally Éponine took pause and really looked at her best friend. There was something wild in him tonight that worried her. Forget that he had a good understanding of his limits and went overboard in a way he hadn't in a while. Forget that a stranger had to carry him home. Forget that he’s been working himself ragged lately because winter was on its way and he was trying to afford real heating for them, and a new down coat for her this year. Something had changed, that she couldn't identify. He spat out the toothpaste, and rinsed one last time before turning to look at her. Those ridiculously blue eyes looking much clearer than they should have. 

“Fuck Ep, it felt like I knew the guy,” Grantaire said softer. He snorted, trying to laugh at how ridiculous he sounded, but it lacked the edge that most of his self-mockery held. And his eyes kept begging her to understand. “Like, I saw him and something in me just went; oh. Like if words just suddenly started making sense.”

Éponine didn't know what to say, especially with the comparison he made to school. So instead, she stood up, kissed his forehead, and focused on the easiest task at hand. She could deal with this new boy in her best friend’s life, their ever-present money issues, and her editorial homework tomorrow. 

“Okay R, you can tell me all about him in the morning. Let’s just get you to bed now,” she said, and walked him across the hall into the room that they occasionally shared. 

Since both of their beds were easy enough to move around the apartment if one of them wanted space, they usually just split the single bedroom. Other times, one of them would move their makeshift bed into the tiny little eating area. At the moment, both of their beds were in the same room, and with the ease of practice, she maneuvered Grantaire down to his mattress pad, lay him on his side, and covered him with his ratty blanket. Within moments, he was out again.

Eponine sighed, determined not to think too much about this Apollo until she talked to Grantaire in the morning, and went to go brush her teeth and get ready for bed herself. Before she forgot, she grabbed the Advil and water from the coffee table in the living room, and placed them a foot away from Grantaire’s head. She was done trying to relax, and was just ready for sleep. Her dinky air mattress was covered by the spare sheets she’d nicked from the freshman housing storage room, but just about anything seemed comfortable at this point. 

Her editorial homework could wait until morning.


	2. Strawman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two! I promise things start to get interesting next chapter!

Grantaire awoke rather harshly to the glare of sunlight through the windows and the sensation of cotton lodged in his mouth and throat. His mind kept trying to grasp at the hazy images from dreams, but all he could hang onto was the billowing color red and the sharp sting of skinned knees. His head ached with a low throbbing, that he immediately recognized as a hangover. Not that this was an unusual way for him to wake up, but it wasn’t usually this bad. He stared at his dinky alarm clock for several moments, trying to determine if he absolutely had to get up, before finally groaning and giving into the day.

Éponine, bless her heart, had left water and Advil all but next to his head. Grantaire took three and swallowed them quickly before going for the water to parch his dry throat. Slowly, painfully, he managed to wrestle himself into a sitting position. The next achievements would be standing upright, moving, walking to the kitchen, and then somehow procuring coffee. 

He groaned as last night came flooding back to him. He remembered trying to calculate the expenses for the next few months. Somewhere he’d heard that this winter was going to be a bad one, and while he could manage through with his beat up leather coat, Éponine could really use an actual down jacket. Grantaire had eventually concluded that it was going to be tight; they’d be pinching pennies and possibly even swiping scraps from unfinished plates at the sandwich shop for a few meals. 

Frustrated and ragged from a rough week, he had ducked into the closest bar he could find. It was called the Corinth, and of the many bars he’d frequented in the three years he’d been living there, this was not one of them. He had headed straight to the bar and ordered something strong, hell if he could remember, and downed it immediately before taking in his surroundings. The atmosphere was relaxed, the booths looked comfy, and the music neither bad nor intrusive. It wasn’t until he heard a bark of laughter from a large booth near the back of the establishment that he remembered why he typically avoided this place.

The Corinth was largely a student bar. 

Following the noise to a large group of guys, Grantaire confirmed that they all looked to be around his age, give or take a few years. These were the bright, intelligent minds of tomorrow that Éponine had surrounded herself with. Grantaire ordered another shot of whatever he had just drank, and debated leaving and trying to stumble into one of his more regular stomping grounds, when a tall bald kid flung an arm around his shoulders and demanded that he settle something between him and one of his friends. 

Grantaire remembered freezing at the question, and immediately flagging the barista down for a refill. He was occasionally mistaken for a college kid, but rarely by other students, and he wasn’t sure how to handle himself. He settled for putting on an easy-going smirk and facing the kid who had dragged him into his conversation. He later found out that his name was Lesgles, but everyone called him Bossuet. Grantaire liked him pretty quickly, feeling a bizarre sense of comfort in the man’s jovial presence. The boy had started rambling about the death penalty or some other political controversy that Grantaire couldn’t particularly care about, and indicated to his stubborn friend who apparently needed convincing. 

At the sight of Bossuet’s debate partner, Grantaire froze again, this time entranced in a moment of undiluted awe. The student in front of him simply couldn’t be human. His wavy golden blond hair fell to his ears, creating a halo effect around his face, broad squared shoulders and sharp jaw offering an air of power and authority. But what really held Grantaire captive was the man’s eyes; though the man’s expression was mildly amused at Courfeyrac, his eyes burned with a determination and purpose that Grantaire had never seen before. Even thinking back on it the next morning in the midst of a hangover, he still shivered. 

Grantaire had all but lunged when the barista set down his drink down on the counter, uncertain of what exactly would come out of his mouth when faced with this Greek god among men. Of course, true to his record, it was of course the worst possible thing he could have said. He had smirked at the man in front of him, asked for his opinions on the topic, and then proceeded to tear through it piece by piece. 

At some point he’d been ushered to their table, and he thinks he remembers everyone getting silent to watch. What he’ll never forget was this Apollo’s stony glare and sharp, clipped responses. The man’s syllables had gotten sharper and harsher as Grantaire’s had become more slurred. By the end he hadn’t even been sure anymore if he was flushed with embarrassment, hurt, exhilaration, or lust. 

His head was spinning, and he’d barely finished two drinks. That was nothing for him, and yet Grantaire had been sure that the entire world was spinning much too fast under his feet, and the only substantial thing he could find to hold onto was this passionate student staring down at him with distaste. 

Suddenly, this marble statue with his burning eyes and golden hair terrified him, and he needed to escape. He needed to get away from under that brutal focus and feel the world blur around him until he felt safe again. 

He turned around to look at the other students at the table, found one who looked a bit like a linebacker and challenged him to a drinking contest. The ginger had stared at him puzzlingly for a moment before throwing his head back in a bellow of laughter and accepting the challenge amicably. The rest of the evening vanished in waves of alcohol, cheering, and bets. 

Grantaire groaned and finally managed to stumble into the kitchen, in which a far too chirpy Éponine was lying on the counter with her laptop on her stomach, her head dangling in the sink. A full pot of coffee sat next to her. 

“Take pity?” he croaked out pathetically. Éponine looked up at him with a wicked smirk, clearly taking pleasure in his pain. 

“You’ll get no pity from me, jackass,” she said before going back to her laptop. He definitely did not whimper as he grabbed a mug from the shelf and reached for the coffee pot. 

“Mercy then? Can you spare some of that?”

Grantaire knew he had won when she snorted in derision, shut her laptop on her stomach, and pulled a wonderfully greasy-looking panini out of her jacket pocket. 

“Is that…”

“Yes, I got you your damn pig on bread! Jeez R, I don’t know what’ll give out first; your liver or your arteries,” Eponine said, while tossing him the panini. And really, it’s just cruel to throw precious food at a guy who’s hung over, especially when he’s trying to balance coffee as well. “Also, I let everyone at The Earl know you wouldn’t be in today. I’m supposed to tell you that you’re the most despised man in the service industry today and feel better,”

The Earl was the nickname for the sandwich shop below their apartment, which he worked for in the afternoons. It wasn’t as much fun as the coffee shop he worked for in the mornings, but he liked the job well enough, and the workers there never commented if he swiped the leftovers that people left at their tables. 

Grantaire unwrapped the panini which was, bacon, ham, and sausage, drowned in cheese and covered by bread. It was his go-to hangover meal, and it was wonderful. With his coffee and his pig, he was beginning to feel more human again. Until of course, Éponine decided that she wasn’t done tormenting him, and opened her mouth again.

“So, what’s the story with the Greek God?” She asked, that evil look in her eyes. 

“Just one of your bright minds I stumbled across at a bar the other night,” Grantaire admitted with a groan. “Actually, an entire group of them. I mooched off their beer, pissed one of them off, and got completely sloshed with a few others.”

“You going to go back? Partake in some Greek pederasty?” she asked, making an obscene face. 

Grantaire couldn’t keep the embarrassment off his face. Instead of trying to figure out a retort, he just walked over to the counter and turned on the sink, letting the spray soak her hair and dribble down her face. She yelped in shock, and he knew he was now basically a dead man, but enjoyed the moment of watching his best friend splutter and try to turn off the faucet. He was caught off guard when she grabbed the handheld spray instead, and attacked him right back. Only when he was well and thoroughly soaked (save the pignini, because that was too precious to be sacrificed) did she relent and settle for leaning back against the counter next to him, shoulder to shoulder. 

“I’m not that old yet, and he’s nowhere close to that young,” Grantaire grumbled, still embarrassed from the Greek comment. It didn’t matter if he felt thirty from the past few years of working ass-crack-of-dawn to dead-of-night hours to make ends meet, or that he couldn’t find any connection between the students his own age and himself. He sighed and finally addressed the question. “But nah, the college scene just isn’t for me. I’ll leave all the smart people shit to you.” 

And that’s all he’d allow himself to think about it. Did he actually want to sleep with the Apollo? Fuck yes. It was mildly frightening how much he wanted that fiery student, more than he’d wanted another person in years. But he himself wasn’t a student. Grantaire didn’t try to interact with students; didn’t try to go to their classes, their little events, their bars. 

“Well it seems college wants you anyway. Anyone who can get under Enjolras’ skin is a frickin’ godsend. Hell, your DD said as much when he dropped you off.”

“Enjolras?” he asked.

“Yeah, leader of that crazy activist group you stumbled across. No one on campus is allowed to forget his name with all the stunts he’s pulled, but Hell if anyone can remember the name of the club. It’s some French pun,” Éponine said offhandedly, as if this was something that he should have just known. 

“It fucking would be something pretentiously French,” Grantaire replied on autopilot. Internally, it was all he could do not to stare at her until she picked up on the fact that her stupid roommate was, once again, lost. 

Enjolras. The name sounded all too fitting for the marble god he remembered from last night. Rich on the tongue, like caramel and liquid gold. Grantaire wondered how easily he could lose himself in it. 

Éponine seemed to figure out what he was thinking far quicker that she should have and developed that evil grin again.

“That’s it. You’re going back to one of their meetings,” she announced, as if it had already been decided. 

Grantaire’s eyes widened, a thinly veiled panic starting to creep up on him, because he knew that tone. Éponine had used that tone when they first met, authoritative and confident that she would get her way. Of course, more often than not, she did. 

He honestly didn’t know where he would be right now if Éponine hadn’t walked up to him on the playground in the fourth grade with all of her second grade baby fat, and told him in no uncertain terms that the knight he was drawing was absolutely not going to rescue a princess in a tower, because girls all alone in tower rooms don’t like men who just barge in. Grantaire hadn’t understood what she meant at the time, nor could he understand why anyone, let alone a second grader, let alone a girl had chosen to speak to him. Flustered, he had told her that of course his knight wasn’t rescuing a princess; he was looking for his other knight buddies. 

Later that day after school let out Éponine followed him home, marched straight into his house and started making them both a snack like she owned the place. His parent’s had been baffled for what to do, but over enough time of this strange girl entering their house and raiding their fridge, she eventually became the daughter Grantaire’s parents never had. The second chance at a better child that they never had. 

Grantaire always loved watching Éponine use that tone to trick and charm and intimidate whatever she wanted out of the unsuspecting people in her path. In fact, he regularly told her how lucky the world was that she didn’t use her powers for evil. Having it turned on him was something he wasn’t used to, and it freaked him out more than he could possibly say. 

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes R, you are,” she insisted pushing harder. “When was the last time you hung out with people our age, besides me? Or got laid?”

“Remember that thing called money that we kind of need? I’d like to have food, and heat, and phones, and an apartment if you don’t mind,” he said in his typical method of diversion, all the while trying to subtly back away from the conversation. The money card usually did the trick, and caused her to lay off, but not this time.

“You’re not too busy to stop off at bars after work most nights. Why not get some ass while there?” Éponine shot back at him, eyebrow quirking up. She knew she’d won.

Grantaire felt the boxed-in kitchen space closing in around him, and he darted out into the living room area while he still could. His breath snagged in the back of his throat, and it was painful. Suddenly, he felt desperate for a drink. 

“Drop it, ‘Ponine. I’m not going and that’s final,” he said, storming off towards the shower instead and hoping that she’d take the cue to drop it. 

Twenty minutes later, Grantaire nearly slipped and broke something in the shower when Éponine poked her head in unexpectedly and shouted at him, “Don’t think that this conversation is close to done!”


	3. Ad Hominem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, please don't hate me. This is the chapter where there is a very violent debate and things are said. Please don't hate me. 
> 
> HUGE DISCLAIMER: I absolutely adore the Day of Silence. I've participated in it every year since I was Fourteen, and I came out to my parents as bisexual on the Day of Silence last year. Whatever these characters say in their debate, please remember that I love it.

Courfeyrac prided himself on being a fairly good judge of character. When he had been approached by Enjolras and Combeferre about a student group they were trying to form, he had a gut instinct telling him to sign up (with his real information) and he never once regretted it. Some of the best people he’s ever met have been through Les Amis de l’ABC. And maybe some of the others have felt that same brotherhood that he did, because he was almost sure that he wasn’t the only one fascinated by the night Grantaire had stumbled into the Corinth and proceeded to throw every argument Enjolras made right back in his face. He had really hoped the guy would come back.

So he was gladly taken by surprise about three weeks later when both he and his roommate (girlfriend?) approached their usual booth in the back of the Corinth and asked if there was room for two more.

From two seats down, Courfeyrac saw Enjolras – deep in conversation with Combeferre and Feuilly – tense and even pause mid-sentence for a moment before continuing. All of the Amis remember the bad mood their fearless leader had subjected them to for days after the argument in the bar, and no one was entirely sure why. Grantaire had played him like a strawman, forcing Enjolras to attack arguments that he didn’t believe in, and while that could be annoying for some people, Enjolras was never one of them. Courfeyrac had a few discussion-based classes with him; the blond handled debate and differing opinions like a true politician, cool and collected. Hell, Enjolras hadn’t even been that wound up when Marius forgot the banners on the day of a rally last semester because he had seen some blonde girl reading a book in the quad. Their leader had kept calm and solved the issue with little more than a sharp barb at Marius, saying that the children being forcibly recruited into the Myanmar National Army didn’t care about his lonely soul, and neither did he.

Grantaire’s sarcastic arguments that never lead to his own beliefs left Enjolras fuming for days. Courfeyrac had stopped bringing random women to the tables. Combeferre had treaded carefully every time he spoke to him. Marius had outright avoided him. It was so bad that he had even snapped at Jehan. Of course, he awkwardly apologized (or the Enjolras equivalent of an apology) a moment later because no one can snap at Jehan. It’s too much like kicking a puppy.

But besides their leader everyone else had liked Grantaire, and he definitely had a different viewpoint on the issues they discussed, whatever that viewpoint was. That could be an important asset when trying to appeal to widespread groups of people. And like he had said to Éponine that night, anyone who could ruffle Enjolras’ feathers was a freaking martyr.

So with that decided Courfeyrac stood up, wrapped an arm around both of their shoulders, grinned widely and said, “Plenty of room! I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

“Again, I’m Courfeyrac,” he started with a flourish. “Otherwise known as the fun one, and the token slutty bisexual. That awkward thing at the bar getting us drinks is my roommate…”

“Marius?” the girl asked incredulously.

“’Ponine!” the ginger said with equal surprise as he navigated his way back to the table, trying not to spill the pitcher of beer.

“You’re part of the activists group?” she asked, detangling herself from Courfeyrac’s arm to chat with Pontmercy excitedly.

“Yeah,” Marius nodded. “Well, sort of. Me and some of these guys don’t exactly see eye to eye on everything, and I doubt Enjolras and I will ever spend quality bonding time together, but it’s a good group and I like what we do.”

Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows, took the pitcher of beer from Marius’ hands, and spun Grantaire back towards the table, away from those two. As much as he loved his roommate, he would be the first to admit that the guy was a bit obsessive in his passions, and oblivious to just about everything else. No matter which Pontmercy setting he was witnessing, it was always a train wreck. Instead, he poured Grantaire the first glass, and then started the roundup.

“First, Bahorel. You may or may not remember this behemoth from your epic drink-off a few weeks back. He’s technically pre-law, but really, he’s the student that isn’t,” Courfeyrac said, waggling his fingers in Grantaire’s face in a failed attempt at being spooky.

“Fuck you too Courf,” Bahorel shot back and held out a hand for Grantaire to shake. “Classes just kinda bore me. I was wondering when the brave little Lilliputian would return for a rematch.”

“Maybe another night, gigantor” Grantaire said with a friendly laugh. “I’ve been instructed to stay mostly lucid tonight, but it’s a rare occurrence, so I’ll be back soon enough.”

“Don’t ever get into a fight with him,” the student next to him advised with a grin. “Not against, him, not assisting him. It will not end well for you. I just tried to pull a guy off him once and nearly got Cytomegalovirus.”

Grantaire turned to him with a startled look on his face, and Courfeyrac couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

“That’s Joly, our favorite hypochondriac pre-med,” he said in quick explanation. “Him and Bossuet, the bald one with the crappiest luck you’ll ever meet, share a girlfriend. Feel free to ask either of them about the logistics of that, but warn everyone first,”

Grantaire looked to Joly with raised eyebrows, and when the med student nodded in confirmation, he seemed to relax into that friendly smirk and dipped his head to the side in acceptance. It was a good thing too, because Courfeyrac didn’t slow down with introductions.

“Feuilly over here is actually our token international. He immigrated all the way from Poland, only to realize that he wasn’t actually enrolled here, so now he’s got to wait an entire year to start.”

The boy in question was fiddling with the corners of a sheet of notebook paper while listening intently to Enjolras and Combeferre. But clearly he’d heard his name mentioned, because without turning towards them, he held up his hand in an okay sign, and called over, “Yep, just keep on telling that story Courf. It’s still funny!”

“Aww, thanks Feuilly! I was starting to worry that I was getting stale,” Courfeyrac threw back with a sassy grin, before looking around.

“I don’t know where Jehan’s got off to this time,” he said, pouting. “You’ll know him if you see him. He’s the one with braided hair, sometimes there’s flowers in it. Also, the extent of his fashion sense is ridiculously bright colored sweaters that are big enough for girl scouts to camp under. He’s our shy poet, so don’t take it to heart if he blushes at you or wants to draw on your wrists.”

Grantaire chuckled lightly at the description, and to be fair, Jean Prouvaire is someone who needs to be seen to be believed. But the poet would never take off without letting someone know where he was, so Courfeyrac had no doubt that the kind-hearted freshman would reappear soon enough. With a flourish, he dragged the new kid towards the head of the booth, eager to see what would happen next.

“Finally our fearless leader, the original revolutionary himself, Enjolras. If you’re not careful, he’s going to rope you into helping him save the world. And by his side is the wonderful Combeferre,” Courfeyrac said as he rested a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder, pointedly ignoring the icy glare from Enjolras. “This is the guy who makes sure Enjolras, and all of us, don’t go off a cliff. The proverbial wise man, if you will.”

“What does that make you then, Courf?” The guide asked him.

“The delicious cream filling, of course.”

Enjolras pointedly looked down at a folder in front of him, wanting no part in the conversation. But Combeferre smiled and held a hand out to Grantaire. The shorter man took it with a similar smirk to the one he’d been wearing since he’d walked in.

“Nice to see you again Grantaire,” Combeferre said. “We’re actually trying to plan something, and we’re stuck on how to increase our turnout. Maybe you can help.”

“I really don’t think I’m your guy,” Grantaire said, but he still pulled a chair away from an empty table so he could sit down at the booth and listen anyway.

Eager to see what this guy would say and do, Courfeyrac did the same.

“Well, the event is nothing original or new. Our school is taking part in the national Day of Silence, and Les Amis is in charge of signing people up. Last year our turnout was pretty underwhelming,” Combeferre explained.

Underwhelming was, of course, a huge understatement. Almost no one knew what the Day of Silence was, and the advertising was uninformative. No one knew what it was about, and therefore no one wanted to sign up for not talking all day. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac were just freshmen at the time, and were still overwhelmed by the fact that they’d managed to start a club at all. The Day of Silence had been their first real project, and their first failure. It was disheartening to say the least, and no one had forgotten it.

Grantaire had pulled the papers from under Enjolras’ nose and started flipping through them, probably to get an understanding for the event. Their leader looked up at him for the first time that night, annoyed. But he said nothing. Grantaire huffed out a few breaths, pursed his lips, squinted at the page, and traced the words slowly with his finger. Courfeyrac couldn’t be sure, but he thought that the man was even reading the words aloud, or at least shaping them in his mouth.

“So correct me if I’m wrong, but this Day of Silence is basically a group of people deciding that they’re not going to talk for one day in support of gay people?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said clearly, using his revolution voice. “The Day of Silence is a national event organized entirely by students. It uses the power of silence to protest the silence that the LGBT community suffers through because of bullying, abuse, and hate. When everyone takes part in it, it’s a beautiful thing.”

Grantaire snorted derisively, and Courfeyrac barely had time to think _uh-oh_ before the conversation all started falling to shit.

“You realize that it’s bullshit, right?”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asked, looking honestly puzzled by the response. Although the Day of Silence centers on LGBT kids and teenagers, the focus of the event is bullying, not homosexuality. And anti-bullying movements almost never get a backlash. And yet, Grantaire was sitting, looking at Enjolras with a bitter grin, cynicism at the ready.

Courfeyrac already regretted sitting in between them, and he glanced down the long booth, locking eyes with Jehan (he must’ve returned from wherever he’d wandered off to) and shooting him a pleading look. Some of the other Amis must have felt the tension from the head of the booth, because a few errant conversations died out and gave way to uncomfortable eavesdropping. The only people still blissfully unaware of the tension were Marius and Éponine since they were now sitting and talking at the bar. The lucky bastards.

“How the hell does a group of kids getting together and not talking for a day do anything for the gays?” Grantaire asked with a sneer. Courfeyrac winced, vaguely offended, and looked over to Jehan, who was staring at the argument with wide eyes. Grantaire didn’t even take pause. “It was probably just created by a bunch of straight guys trying to prove they’re not homophobic. You think your pretty perfect idea happens in the real world? That people put duct tape over their mouths, hang up rainbow flags, and actually effect any substantial change?”

Enjolras’ posture grew stiff and fiery. He leaned over the table, poised like a lion curling up to pounce; he looked almost feral. The rest of the table was silent now, focused on watching the exchange between the cynic and their leader.

“Yes, I’ve seen it,” Enjolras said tightly. “When a school community comes together to visibly show their support through a small sacrifice…”

“Oh of course! Sacrifice!” Grantaire cut him off with a bark of harsh laughter. “Ten bucks says these kids walk around with notebooks and white boards. And of course, there’s texting.”

That was true. Courfeyrac’s high school had done the Day of Silence and most people did carry around signs and paper to communicate with others, but it was necessary sometimes. He didn’t think that anyone begrudged participants that. The Amis all glanced at each other, wondering where this was going to end, and once again Courfeyrac was seriously regretting sitting between the two. Combeferre, who was sitting on Enjolras’ other side, looked at him sympathetically.

“And because of that the message is lost?” Enjolras scoffed. “The Day of Silence is not meant to be a hunger strike; it’s a gesture of support and…”

“Support through sacrifice is what you said. But it’s not all that much of a sacrifice because there’s _always_ a way to communicate,” Grantaire spat bitterly, throwing his hands in the air. “And if you knew anything at all about this, you’d know people don’t need words to abuse.”

Courfeyrac sighed, and tried to keep an eye on both Grantaire and Enjolras’ faces. He had grown up in a pretty well-off town (not Enjolras-level wealthy, but a good school system) and he had always participated in the Day of Silence. Back then, he only participated from the beginning of the school day to the end, talking again when he went back home, but it was still an amazing thing. He had figured out he was bisexual about halfway through high school, and seeing so many of his classmates that he didn’t even know participating was heart-warming. Even when he wasn’t confident enough to continue the Day of Silence in his own home, school proved itself a place to be proudly bi. And yet, Grantaire made a sick point, and he didn’t know how Enjolras was going to come at it. Bullies typically didn’t see people not talking for a cause and decide to change their ways.

“Well get out then, if you think our cause is so hopeless,” Enjolras spat disdainfully.

“Enj,” Combeferre started softly, but with warning. But their golden leader held up a hand to silence him, and continued.

“Maybe you’re content to live in a world where governments bicker over their own petty differences rather than the needs of the people, and the 1% dictate the national conversation, and children can be used as adult’s bargaining chips, but I refuse. Go live in your disgusting world, wallowing away in your own hopelessness. You’ll be there alone.”

He sucked in air through his teeth, as Combeferre across the table dropped his head with a sigh. Courfeyrac learned a lot about Grantaire in the instant after the words left Enjolras’ mouth. He learned that the cynic had absolutely no barrier between his emotions and his expressions, save the weak smirk that he’d been wearing all evening. Courfeyrac saw as it fell away, to reveal a deep hurt. Grantaire’s entire face was lost in wild black curls and freakishly huge blue eyes, making him look young and lost.

Without a word, the cynic stood up, dipped his head towards Enjolras in what looked like a slight bow, and turned to walk away.

All of the Amis (particularly Marius) were familiar with Enjolras’ thoughtlessness. Their leader thought in extremes, and it made his passion hard and brutal at times. They all had grown to accept and largely disregard it when interacting with the man. But Grantaire had somehow managed to evoke in Enjolras a cruelty that they only saw directed at corrupt politicians and greedy Wall Street one percenters.

Grantaire had only made it a couple of steps away from the table before freezing, clenching his hands into fists by his side. He stood there for several moments, and Courfeyrac was silently begging the boy to just leave before things got worse. Before Enjolras continued.

“Fuck!” Grantaire shouted, voice raw. He whirled around to face Enjolras once more. His eyes shined wetly, and his voice was thick. “No matter how many signs you make or protests you organize, the world won’t be any more saved. You won’t have gotten through to anyone because you’re just a snobby rich boy. Look at you; you’ve never been the subject of ridicule. You have the luxury to sympathize, and nothing to lose.”

Grantaire’s frenzied energy at their leader died away with the end of his words, leaving the boy standing there, aware of everyone at the booth staring at him. He went limp and tired, walking back up, leaning over the table, and spoke again.

“You want to know how to get widespread support for the gay community? You wanted my advice. Well, there’s only one way to move large crowds, and that’s by making it uncool to be prejudiced,” the cynic said wearily. Courfeyrac wondered if this was the first real glimpse they’d gotten at the man. “The only time everyone gives a shit about the minority is when they’ve just been brutalized. You want support, go on a witch hunt. Just don’t expect it to last; people always go back to their disinterested, self-absorbed little lives.”

Courfeyrac winced, feeling a flash of anger broil in him at the brutal words, and sadness sat the defeated tone in the cynic’s voice. He allowed a moment to break away from watching Grantaire and Enjolras to glance over at Jehan. The poet had a pained wince on his face, either from the world-condemning words or his own memories he couldn’t tell.

Enjolras paid no notice to Grantaire’s obvious misery, only swept up in fury from the words. “You think you’re so worldly? You make yourself incapable of belief and call it wisdom. You’re a drunkard and a cynic who makes it a point to hide from the world because you can’t live in it. You are in no position to act as representation of the human race.”

Grantaire looked so defeated, so miserable, standing there awkwardly. The Amis all watched him in stunned silence. His gaze fell away from Enjolras to stare (was that shame in his expression?) at the floor, letting his wild black curls cover his face. Slowly, sadly, he looked up once more.

“Maybe you should try for a witch hunt. Your judgment is swift and terrible. You could be a man to be feared.”

And before Enjolras could open his mouth again Grantaire turned around once more, and this time slunk out of the Corinth. All of the Amis were silent, some slack jawed, staring at their golden leader. Enjolras was alight with his carefully controlled rage, pointedly going back to his folders.

Courfeyrac turned to look at Jehan. The poet was red-faced, and looked like he was next to tears. Joly saw this, and rested a hand on the freshman’s shoulder questioningly. He shakingly nodded, then stood up and spoke softly.

“I’ve got next round.”

“I’ll help you,” Courfeyrac said immediately, and rushed to Jehan’s side.

The poet was only a year younger than him, but Courfeyrac could never decide if he gave the presence of being infinitely younger or infinitely older. At this moment though, he looked much younger, and when Courfeyrac rested a hand on his back, he could feel the boy trembling underneath the baggy sweater.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Courfeyrac comforted him softly. The other boy blushed and broke eye contact, and Courfeyrac grinned warmly at him before continuing. “What he said, did it upset you?”

“Which one?” Jehan asked with a light laugh, though Courfeyrac could see him fighting though tears.

“Grantaire.”

“Grantaire?” Jehan asked, looking puzzled for the first time. “Didn’t you see... I mean, wasn’t it obvious?”

Jehan tripped over his words embarrassedly, clearly trying so hard not to offend him in any way. It was adorable, and almost funny because Courfeyrac doubted that Jehan was programmed with the ability to offend anyone. But Jehan was observant, probably more so than all of the Amis put together. So if Jehan had seen something no one else had, then Courfeyrac wasn’t slightly surprised.

“No, probably not,” Courfeyrac admitted with a laugh. “What is it?”

“Grantaire’s not… He’s,” Jehan stumbled, trying to decide whether he should explain, and how to word it before finally just saying, “He’s like me.”

“He’s gay.” Courfeyrac breathed out and wiped a hand over his face, trying to run through the argument again in his mind with that new information. Every exchange just made him wince more. “Of course he’s gay.”

But then, he thought over Jehan’s wording again and turned back to the boy, concerned.

“Wait, do you think he was also…” Courfeyrac trailed off, the unspoken words bitter in his throat.

“Maybe, I’m not sure,” Jehan said. Finally, the poet broke eye contact and took to focusing on some point over Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “We should tell his roommate what happened.”

Courfeyrac turned around and followed Jehan’s gaze to the other end of the bar, where Marius was talking to Éponine animatedly. Both were somehow completely oblivious of what had just taken place. With a sigh, Courfeyrac nodded and lead Jehan over to the two. Marius was going on and on about the mysterious blond freshman from last semester, talking about how she had dropped her headband and he had picked it up, and what could it possibly mean. Éponine, for her part, looked like she really didn’t want to be hearing this.

Courfeyrac tapped her on the shoulder with an apologetic smile, and started to explain what had just happened. As he recounted the argument and what was said within it, he watched a change within the pretty Writing Center tutor. Her features shifted and warped from friendly and open college girl to something almost sinister. Her eyes narrowed into slits, her jaw set forcefully, and her lips curled into a snarl. If Courfeyrac didn’t know any better, he’d think that Éponine was about to kill someone.

“Fuck!” She finally shouted when Courfeyrac finished his explanation. “Thanks for telling me. I have to go.”

“Will Grantaire be okay?” Jehan asked sweetly, and Éponine’s harsh frown melted into a sweet smile for a moment.

“Yeah, I just need to make sure he went home instead of doing something monumentally stupid,” she said, stood up, and slipped on her coat.

Instead of walking towards the door though, Éponine turned around and headed to the booths in the back. Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Marius stared after her confusedly for a few seconds, unsure what she was doing or if she was lost. Then they all gaped as they watched the feisty freshman walk over to Enjolras, and then punch him in the face. Really hard.

 “Next time you start running your mouth about shit you don’t know, I promise, I will stab you multiple times in your dick!” She bellowed at him loudly, before turning around. As she walked back, she waved goodbye to the three of them standing open-mouthed at the bar, and then left. 


	4. Argumentum Ad Antiquitatem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized that I never explained myself about the pretentious over-thinking of my chapter titles. The plot of this story (not the series, just Lost in Fallacy) is mainly centered around Grantaire and Enjolras' meeting and how Grantaire becomes one of the Amis. And that is largely because of the confusion in the arguments that the two have (particularly the one last chapter). So the titles are all fallacies, or errors in reasoning that can invalidate an argument. If you want me to explain my choices, let me know.

Combeferre could safely say that he knew his roommate better than anybody else on campus. And if he was feeling particularly bold, he would say that he knew Enjolras better than anyone, save the man himself. The political science major had a cool head on his shoulders, unshakable beliefs, and just hint of too much stubbornness.

They had gotten along immediately when they met each other the first day of Freshman Orientation last year. Combeferre had nearly lost his glasses when he stumbled into his room, tripping over his own duffel bags and suitcases, and Enjolras was already almost fully unpacked and setting up his huge box of books in alphabetical order by author’s last name. He had been on Rousseau, and they had started up a conversation about his philosophies while they unpacked. Rousseau had led to the Greeks, 19th century French politics, their own prospective majors, then finally each other. 

Les Amis de l’ABC had technically been Enjolras’ creation, but Combeferre has been there through the entire process, and it was almost as much his child as it was his roommate’s. They had gone to the club fair together and had browsed through the aisles of pushy upperclassmen and colorful trifold boards. By the time they had left, Enjolras had been irritated with the fact that there hadn’t been a social justice activist’s group on the campus.

It had taken two months of battling with the student body for interest (because Enjolras refused to accept the signatures of people who were unsure in their convictions), the administration for funding, and Combeferre for a name. They eventually settled on a very 19th century era French pun that only they found amusing.

Courfeyrac had been their first member. He was a freshman like them, and he had been excited by the prospect of the club. In fact, he’d been so excited that after he’d left Enjolras had turned to him and asked “Was that guy snorting Adderall or something?”

Of course, they conclusively found out later that he wasn’t.

Next, they had found Joly, the then-Junior who had asked about their take on the Nodding Syndrome outbreak in the Southern Sudan. They had talked for fifteen minutes before the pre-med had told them that he and his roommate would love to sign up, and that they knew a great bar and a great new coffee shop where they could meet until they set up an on-campus location.

Everyone loved Bossuet, the Corinth, and the Café Musain so much, that they never bothered to set up that on-campus location.

Courfeyrac dragged his roommate Marius to the first meeting, and while the awkward ginger and Enjolras clashed on several accounts, he was ultimately welcomed. Bahorel had wandered into their second meeting, saw them, and sat down. Somehow, he just got wrapped into it.

With every new member they recruited, another piece of the puzzle came together. Everyone brought something new and important to the activist’s group, and it all just seemed to make sense. This year at the college fair they had found Feuilly the not-student, and Jehan, the optimistic poet. They had become more than just a group of activists, but a group of friends, and then eventually a family. Enjolras was their unspoken leader but Combeferre didn’t feel like he was just the second in command. He had taken each of them under his wing, and the Amis were like his little ducklings at times.

Other times, Combeferre wanted to bash their skulls in with a very heavy cannon.

“What was that, Enj?” he asked sharply, trying not to let his own displeasure show as he tended to what would soon be a black eye. His roommate never responded well to anger when he was also irate. Joly had rushed to the bar and came back with a bag of ice and a dish towel.

“What was what, Combeferre?” Enjolras asked pointedly, glaring at him. “He was being offensive to the cause, to an entire demographic that some of our friends qualify as, and to me. Therefore I told him to leave, and that he had no place with us.”

“No Enj, you didn’t tell him he had no place with us,” Bossuet spoke up from across the booth. “You told him that he was a heartless, hopeless individual who didn’t have a place with the human species.”

“I…” Enjolras looked up then, startled by Bossuet’s words and the possible truth they held. The anger bled away into confusion as he immediately tried to remember the exchange that had just taken place.

“I may have been harsh, but I was right,” Enjolras finally stated. Combeferre quirked an eyebrow at him, and he amended the statement quickly. “Well, not about that. But he was insulting our cause, and displaying hideous homophobia in front of friends of mine in the LGBT community. Was I supposed to let him stay and continue to insult us all like that?”

Courfeyrac and Jehan returned to the table then, notably empty-handed. That’s okay, Combeferre thought. No one at the table was more than half finished with their drinks anyway. Those two had just (understandably) needed a reason to get up and walk away for a moment. But with Courfeyrac’s next words, Combeferre wondered if maybe he didn’t understand it after all.

“He wasn’t being homophobic Enjy. Not a word of that was about gay people,” Courfeyrac said steadily, hand resting on Jehan’s shoulder. Enjolras looked up at them quickly, looking confused again.

“But, with the Day of Silence…”

“He said that it didn’t get any support for the LGBT community because of how kids handle it. That’s it,” Courfeyrac said and sat down in his chair, much further away from Enjolras than he was before. “He did have some very colorful things to say about the rest of humanity though. And you too.”

“I didn’t attack him because he was insulting me, if that’s what you’re suggesting.” Enjolras flushed in embarrassment and anger, and sat up straighter than before to stare down Courfeyrac.

“He’s not saying that Enjolras,” Feuilly soothed. “If there’s one thing we know you’re not, it’s petty.”

“He made some good points too,” Jehan spoke up quietly, and everyone turned to him in surprise. The poet flushed under their gaze, but held his ground. “I mean, I love the Day of Silence and everything it stands for. I think it creates a wonderful feeling of community acceptance and support, but it doesn’t get always across what it’s like to have to hide being gay for fear of being attacked. It’s almost there, but it doesn’t take that extra step.”

With Jehan’s carefully chosen words, the last of Enjolras’ righteous indignation flew out the window and left him looking uncertain; and his roommate always hated uncertainty. Combeferre too, had a lot to reflect on after Grantaire and Jehan’s speeches. Was there more they could or should be doing to bring understanding and support for the gay community, and if so, how?

“I… will need time to think about this,” Enjolras said. Combeferre’s roommate then stood up from the table, icepack covering his already swelling eye, and made to leave. “Thank Mrs. Hucheloup for the ice for me.”

Combeferre rushed after him quickly.

“Don’t even think about it Enj,” Combeferre warned in a friendly manner. “I’m driving.”

\-----

Éponine rushed home, swearing at the boy Grantaire saw as Apollo with every step. Enjolras. His name was Enjolras, and she wanted to stab him. The pretentious Francophile (well, he probably was a Francophile) had no clue how many weeks it had taken her to convince Grantaire to entertain the possibility of going out with college aged kids. Then how much longer it took him to agree to go back to hang out with these specific people again.

Somehow, that asshole had caught Grantaire’s attention in a way no one had since high school almost three years ago. With R’s varying conquests, it was hard to pin down what his type was. Granted, it was possible that most of those men were just convenient at the time.

She scanned every possible dark alley and every bar that she encountered on the walk back to their apartment, getting more worked up each time she didn’t see him. It was only when she opened the apartment door and heard soft choked sobbing did she finally relax a little. Walking a few steps into the apartment, she turned and found him in a ball on the floor of their kitchen. There were a few empty bottles strewn about around him, and his untamable black curls were frizzy and serpentine from sweat. Éponine breathed a sigh of relief. He may be miserable and she may be on clean-up duty, but at least he was here and he was okay.

“Hey R,” she said softly, helping him to sit up. He was sweating alcohol already. “Let’s get you washed up, okay?”

“I’m not doing that again, ‘Ponine,” Grantaire huffed out between gasps and shudders, shoulders immediately curling forward in a pitiful attempt at hiding and trying to close his emotions off. He could never do it; not from her and not from anybody. He may be able to guard his beliefs (if he had any left to believe in, that is) from everyone who tried to understand him, but her roommate has always been led by his emotions. Well, dragged behind on a leash is closer to accurate.

“Okay,” she conceded for the time being, trying to cover up her sadness and disappointment. She wanted to scream at Enjolras for ruining this so completely for her best friend. “Never again. Now let’s get you in a quick shower, and then we can watch some crap TV. Okay?”

“N-no,” Grantaire panted the words, eyes wide with sadness. Even weakly, he shuddered and pulled away to stand up. He was shaking so badly that he needed to clutch the kitchen counter for support, and she was surprised that he was managing to stay upright. “I’m fine. You were having a good time. You should be able to spend time with your kind of people.”

Oh, so he was being all moronically self-sacrificing now. Éponine rolled her eyes and reached out to hold onto his arm, trying to get him to sit down again before he crumbled again.

“I spent the entire time there listening to Marius going on and on about this blonde lark he saw in the quad once and has fallen in love with. I really don’t care if I miss that,” she said with a smirk and a grin, patting rapidly on Grantaire’s cheek until he finally looked up at her smiling face. Finally something cracked, and some of the tension of the situation spilled away, leaving Grantaire shaky and worn but able to sit down on the floor again and crack a timid smile.

“Marius really is an idiot,” he said.

Éponine grinned, and let herself breath again. Grantaire would be okay. It took twenty minutes to calm him down enough to walk him to the shower (she would forever be grateful for the shallow bathtub over the shower) and get him to wash up. She then left him a pair of sweatpants and a ratty old Batman shirt, and went to go change into pajamas of her own. Finally she headed to the couch with her laptop to wait it out.

Fifteen minutes later, Grantaire appeared in the doorway with his wet hair hiding his face, and his posture still slumped with sadness. When he looked up at her, all she could see was that awkward seventeen year old, knocking on her window at 8pm on a Wednesday night, his eyes red from crying. Éponine remembered him telling her _“We’re leaving. Pack your shit.”_

She had been so relieved that he was okay, and so thrilled to be escaping that she hadn’t asked him what had happened for fifteen minutes. It hadn’t matter that she still had more than two years of high school left or that he only had less than eight months until he graduated. They just picked a direction (East) and started driving.

Éponine held open her arms and he gratefully walked over to their couch and fell into them. The sobs didn’t come back, and neither did the violent shaking, but she could still feel him trembling. She just ran her fingers through his thick black hair, playing with the springy curls at the ends, and pressed kisses to the top of his head until he started to calm again. 

“You will always be my people, okay?” she said, leaving no room for doubt. Underneath her, he nodded. Finally, she toed open her laptop and tapped the mouse pad until the screen woke up, revealing Netflix. “So, you pick what we watch tonight.”

She waited for the never-ending debate over Charmed vs. Friends to start up again, but it never came. In fact, Grantaire stayed silent for several seconds before slinking out of the hug, and sitting on the far end of the couch. Éponine sat up and looked at him

“Ep, can we start Girl Friday again?”

Éponine froze and stared at her best friend across the couch. His defeated posture and the ashamed misery in his freakishly blue eyes suddenly stood out, not just as effects from the panic attack, but as warning signs of an impending total breakdown. It was finally starting to sink in just how much this Enjolras had managed to fuck with Grantaire in their two meetings.

She still remembered the shy, isolated little boy who she’d walked up to in the second grade. She’d been angry at her father and had wanted to lash out at the fourth grader drawing a picture of a knight in a sketch book. She had obnoxiously told him that his knight wasn’t going to rescue a princess, and his response had been _“well of course not.”_

Somehow, with those words Grantaire had healed something inside of her she hadn’t realized was aching. But as elementary school and middle school progressed, it had become clear that she couldn’t as easily do the same for him. She was there when the teachers stopped trying and put him in the remedial classes. Pretty soon afterwards his parents stopped trying, stopped medicating him, and just let him flounder. Then no one had the foresight to keep it quiet or hide the fact that Grantaire couldn’t perform like the other kids. The other boys at school laughed at him for being so slow at school, and keeping to himself. Grantaire became the class retard, and somewhere in the transition from elementary school to middle school, he must’ve realized what other targets the universe was placing on his back like a kick me sign.

One night when she was in fifth grade and he was in seventh, Éponine had run away to his bedroom after one of her father’s business dealings. It was a regular occurrence, at least once every few weeks, and Grantaire’s parents had grown used to finding her in his bed with him in the mornings. She had climbed in through the window and cuddled under the coveers, and he said that he had something he needed to tell her. He was so scared that he had hidden his face in her stomach and refused to look up at her while he said it. The words _“I’m gay”_ tickled against her stomach like raspberries, and she’d had to focus to translate the muffled vibrations against her belly button into words with real meaning and fear.

Éponine had kissed the top of his head (although it had been difficult to reach with the angle) and had told him that it meant nothing to her. That he would always be her best friend.

From that moment on, she had moved beyond his self-appointed protector; she signed up as his Girl Friday. She had seen what being the class retard had done to him, and refused to let him become the class faggot. In the beginning of eighth grade he told her about some guys, particularly Brandon Walters, starting to wonder why he never showed any interest in girls. The very next day she stole some of her Mom’s makeup, put on her cutest clothes and skipped lunch to run up to him in the eighth grade hallways and plant a kiss on his cheek. In his ear she had whispered _“Just go with it.”_

It had become Grantaire’s shield throughout high school. For a few weeks out of every year, they would pull out the full charade, pretending to be dating, picking each other up from classes, and slobbering all over each other. It kept Grantaire safe (well, safe from the gay bashing) and Éponine off limits to the advances of boys she simply couldn’t deal with at the time.

Of course, it hadn’t lasted.

Grantaire hadn’t asked her to resume the role of clingy girlfriend since long before they had left their shitty little hometown behind them in the dust. On their road trip, there had been several weeks where neither knew where they were headed. They had slept in fully reclined car seats all too often, but Grantaire had taken to stopping at every gay bar they passed in the country, getting completely shit-faced, picking up men of every shape, size, color, and creed, and spending nights in their beds. Éponine doubted that Grantaire remembered the name of the man he’d lost his virginity to, or the next eight after that.

But once Éponine had settled on where they were headed, a cute college town on the East Coast, his insane behavior stopped immediately. Grantaire reigned in the drinking to only when they had decided to stop for the night, and refused to look at another man. By the time they had pulled into town, he had taken up the carefully crafted persona of the guy who looks at women and made faces to convey _“if only I wanted to.”_

Grantaire had gotten a handful of jobs, one with “The Earl of Sandwich,” the sandwich shop beneath their apartment, later another with the Café Musain, a lovely little coffee shop run by a delightful woman named Musichetta, and occasionally bartending for a few places around the city. He began supporting them, trying to save up money to get her into college, and painfully avoided everyone near his age. At first she understood, but after three years, she was starting to get worried about him.

It would be easy to kiss his cheek, pick him up from work, and hang off his arm for a few weeks until he felt comfortable in his surroundings and around other people again. She doubted anyone of importance (and she absolutely wasn’t thinking about Marius. Not at all.) would even have to know about it.

Therefore, they were both shocked when she looked up into his scared expression, and told him “No.”

Grantaire looked down immediately and nodded his head quickly, trying to cover his tracks with her by saying how he understood, and how terrible and unfair it was to ask that of her anymore. Éponine rolled her eyes, and walked over to press a kiss to the top of his head, effectively silencing him. 

“I’m always going to have your back, R. I just can’t be your beard anymore,” she promised, and after tensing next to her for a second, Grantaire relaxed and wrapped his arms around her waist in a tight hug.

“Marius really is an idiot,” Grantaire repeated firmly, and pulled her back onto the couch, this time with her in his arms, so they could watch their Netflix. “Now, time for some Friends,”

“I still can’t believe you like that formulaic show,” she said with a snort. “It’s just unrealistic situations that no sane human being would ever find themselves in to get a laugh.”

“Yes, but it has Phoebe Buffay, so your argument is invalid. Even _I_ would happily date Phoebe Buffay. Besides, it’s better than that hideously written Buffy knockoff that you keep pushing down my throat.”

“Yes, but Charmed has Chris, who you totally have a crush on,” Éponine countered with a smile.

“I can’t help it if Chris has the one decent character arc and season story plot in the entire show!” 


	5. Petitio Principii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is kind of short. It's a bridge chapter. But Enjolras is planning something...

It had taken two weeks for Grantaire to calm down. Actually, Éponine counted that it had taken him sixteen days, and even then it hadn’t been easy. She’d had to speak to their landlord and his boss, Vincent Hannigan downstairs at The Earl, warning him about Grantaire’s heightened neurosis for the next few weeks. She had struggled to explain with as much ambiguity as possible Grantaire’s bad interactions with people, and how some idiot student has triggered some bad memories for him. When she finished explaining how her roommate would be jumpy and anxious around people he doesn’t know for the next few weeks at least, Vince had a soft smile on his face.

“I guess I’ll just have to move him into the kitchen then,” he had said.

It had taken a few moments to realize what Vince was saying. That he would be useless as a waiter for the next few weeks, so he had decided to promote him to chef duties. If she hadn’t been before, Éponine was now convinced that their landlord was the most wonderful person to grace this planet.

Then she had gone to his morning job at the Café Musain and had talked to his other completely wonderful boss, Musichetta. That conversation had gone slightly differently, with Musichetta being sympathetic, but just this side of too nosy. She wouldn’t let Éponine go until she knew which asswipes upset Grantaire so much. Then the moment she admitted that it was the Amis, Musichetta had sat down, stunned. Slowly, Musichetta admitted that she knew the group, and that they occasionally held their meetings in her shop.

But Musichetta, being the beautiful human being that she is, called up one of the boys and told them that they couldn’t meet in the Café Musain for the next few weeks, and to spread the word to generally stay away until further notice. The boy on the other end of the line must have protested slightly because she snapped at him lovingly about sneezing in his coffee if he tried to come by, and thanked him for spreading the message.

Éponine, feeling guilty, tried to tell her that she hadn’t needed to do that. To which, she replied, “Sweetie, I love my boys, but I look after my own.”

By the time Éponine had left, she was a little bit in love with Musichetta.

Grantaire went into work for both of them, grateful for all the accommodations they had made for him. He seemed amazed at how many friends and allies he had in this town. But that didn’t stop him from being nervous around the customers in the coffee shop, or jumpy when someone snuck up on him in the kitchen. For the first week, he was unable to bartend anywhere, despite the fact that he never worked at the Corinth, and les Amis never seemed to leave that bar. During that week, Éponine pulled even longer hours at the Writing Center and never left home without one of her knives. Whenever Grantaire got nervous and twitchy, her protective best friend instincts flew into overdrive and all of her guards went up.

 After two weeks though, he’d finally started to calm down and slowly ease back into his familiar laid-back persona. Relieved, she relaxed as well. So it was lucky for Jehan that he had waited for three weeks to approach her, on one of the first days that she didn’t have a pocket knife tucked to the inside of her hip-hugger jeans.

“Éponine, wait up!” he called out after she was walking out of one of her morning classes, grabbing onto her shoulder carefully. Initially, she had tensed, but upon seeing the poet with braided hair and a turquoise and purple color scale sweater she relaxed slightly and let him speak.

“How’s Grantaire? No one’s seen him on campus, and we were concerned…”

“That’s because he’s not a student,” she cut him off abruptly. Jehan may be a cool person, but she was still protecting her best friend, and in her opinion, this entire group was now a nasty trigger. “He’s fine.”

“O-okay,” Jehan blushed and shrugged, not looking the least bit convinced. “Well, I know that the Amis are probably the last people either of you want to deal with, but I have a favor to ask you. Just hear me out before you say no.”

“What?” Éponine’s eyes narrowed as she looked at him, not liking where this was going.

“Well, after you left, we all talked about what was said, and Enjolras decided that some of the things Grantaire said was right, and…”

“Oh, how good of your leader to climb down from his high horse to send this apology down through you to pass to me, to pass to Grantaire!” she sneered, feeling bad for cutting the boy off, but still angry with Enjolras.

“N-no, that’s not what this is,” Jehan stuttered out, blushing even more.

“Well why not? That prick needs to do some apologizing! The things he said; you don’t do that!”

“I know it was reprehensible,” Jehan mumbled, looking at the ground now. Finally, Éponine calmed, not wanting to take her anger out on this innocent boy. She sighed.

“Sorry, it’s not you,” she finally gave in. “What did you want to ask?”

“Enjolras is organizing something in the quad later today at 5 o’ clock for the whole campus. It’s kind of because of, or at least inspired by what happened. Enjolras hasn’t said anything, but we all know it is, and that he really wants to apologize. It’s just, we can’t find him.”

To Jehan’s credit he sounded sincere, although she doubts that the poet has anything less than a sincere setting. On the last line though, the boy’s voice actually cracked. It was too much, and she hadn’t forgotten that this boy wanted something from her, and it seemed to have something to do with Grantaire. Had it been anything else, she would’ve warmed up to him by now, but that fact kept her strictly distant.

“So, what do you want from me?” Éponine asked guardedly.

“Look, I completely understand that he’s scared,” Jehan said grabbing her hands in his and clutching them near his chest. He had a strangely intense and open expression on his face, and Éponine was suddenly very uncomfortable. “When I was fifteen, I came out to my family and they… well, they disowned me. I stayed with friends for years, and I don’t know if that’s exactly what happened to him, or anything really.”

Grantaire hadn’t been disowned or kicked out of his house. He just… wasn’t. Éponine didn’t know exactly what had happened that day but that much she was sure about. Even so...

“How did you…”

“I didn’t. I guessed. And no one else knows,” Jehan said, then paused. “Actually, I told Courf that I thought he was gay, but no one else. Courfeyrac generally can’t keep secrets, but this kind he’s good with. Grantaire’s safe, I promise.”

Only after that assurance left Jehan’s mouth did Éponine realize how much she needed to hear it. Of course, just because he said it, it didn’t mean it was true. Grantaire was still terrified of getting to know other people, and buried himself in a life of comfortable routine, all the while trying to hide from who he is and who he was.

Between earning money for them to live, which he considers his duty, and drinking until he can’t remember anything, which he considers his hobby, she’s terrified that there won’t be anything left. But Jehan holds a small piece of her best friend, and promises that he’s safe. She doesn’t know if he’s telling the truth, or if it even matters if he thinks he is, but it just feels so good to know that someone else is holding Grantaire with her.

“So, what do you want from me?” she repeats, but the edge is gone from her voice.

“Enjolras hasn’t said anything, but we all know that he’s hoping Grantaire’s there at 5 today. I promise we will do everything we can to make sure Grantaire is never attacked like that again,”

Éponine tensed again, torn. Enjolras was the first person to terrify Grantaire since they ran away, and she had promised to protect him from anyone who threatened her best friend’s delicate sense of safety.

But that promise was so tempting. For so long she had felt so trapped in the isolation they both kept themselves in. She had to keep her head down and hope no one asked questions about who she was or where she came from for fear of being recognized, and he kept away from others for fear that they’d hurt him. Twice now, this group of people has reached out to them, and part of her wanted to find a place for them.

“I’ll think about it,” she finally said, trying not to give away anything.

Either she was slipping, or Jehan just knew much more than he should, because his tentative smile exploded into a gigantic beam and pulled her into a large hug.

“You won’t regret it,” he whispered, before kissing her cheek. When he pulled away, he tucked a sprig of lavender (where had he gotten that?) behind her ear before starting to shuffle off, back in the direction he’d come from.

“Hey,” she called out after him, a second thought chewing on the back of his mind. He spun around to look at her. “How the hell are you going to get the entire campus on the quad at 5?”

Jehan blushed before saying, “I actually can’t tell you, sorry. It’s not that I don’t want to. I actually can’t. But you’ll know it when it happens.”

With that, he actually did manage to skip away, off to his next class, leaving Éponine standing there and wondering what she was going to do, and how the hell she was going to do it. 


	6. Cum Hoc Non Propter Hoc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, speeches are not easy to write. This took me a while. Hope you like it.

Enjolras sat stiffly in one of the uncomfortable chairs at the campus coffee shop flipping over his notes, and trying to ignore the fact that their coffee just isn’t as good as the Café Musain. He didn’t know why Joly and Bossuet’s girlfriend kicked them out a few weeks ago, but they were all worse off for it, and right now he could honestly use better caffeine. The rally was in fifteen minutes, and at best everyone listened and became excited. At worst, nothing would be prepared, Campus Security would be far too efficient, and no one would listen.

Grantaire might not be there. It’s not like any of Les Amis have been able to find him on campus since their fight at the Corinth a few weeks ago. Of course, that wasn’t a major factor in the success of Enjolras’ plans. The rally could succeed or fail without the man. But Grantaire’s arguments were the birthing seed of this idea, and it wouldn’t be fitting if the curly haired, bright-eyed cynic wasn’t there to see what he had helped create.

 “You’re not nervous, are you?”

His shoulders tensed slightly, until Enjolras turned around and saw that Combeferre had found him. Of course Combeferre had found him; his roommate was always mother-henning every one of les Amis, and had a history of forcing him to eat and sleep during finals week. Checking up on him before one of their least planned and most risky on-campus rallies is essentially par for the course.

“Of course not,” Enjolras answered immediately. “Why do you ask?”

Of course, it’s a lie. It’s a very good one, and Enjolras probably could’ve convinced himself of it, had he not been plagued by his recurring dream again. The room that smelled of cheap air freshener and cigarette smoke, and the lost ten year old boy. He always had the same dream before large political rallies and protests, or before he went home for Christmas break.

“Because this rally is pretty different than anything you’ve ever put together before. And we haven’t gotten permission from the school to do this,” Combeferre stated knowingly before tilting his head and looking curiously at him. “Enj, why exactly are you doing this?”

“Because you were right; Grantaire was right. There is a gap in our society. It doesn’t matter if it’s between the wealthy and the impoverished, men and women, white and people of color, heteronormativity and LGBT. Our goal has always been to raise the oppressed to equal standing, if only we can speak loud enough for the haves to care about the have-nots. Maybe it’s time to show that this is everyone’s fight,” Enjolras said, impassioned.

He had spent several days thinking about the argument with Grantaire, and the words of his friends. He had tried to understand what was so different about their protests and events like the Day of Silence. Finally he had realized that their rallies and protests spoke to the so called “lucky ones,” trying to get them to hear the voices of the abased. However, the Day of Silence was largely run by the majority, speaking to the minority about their struggles. And while it’s important to offer support for communities like LGBT, offering support doesn’t always bridge the gap of understanding. And without understanding, they can’t begin to help solve the problem.

After he came to realize that, he became half crazed, trying to think of a way to achieve both goals without insulting the people they want to speak to or condescending to the people they’re trying to help. It had been Marius of all people who had suggested the idea, and it had been so cleverly simple, so elegant. Enjolras had damn near almost paid a sketch artist to draw Marius’ mysterious crush so that the Amis could help him find her as a thank you.

“I’m not questioning your commitment, Enjolras,” Combeferre said, not dropping that questioning expression. “I just want to know if you know why you’re doing all of _this._ Why couldn’t it wait? Why couldn’t we just have a planned rally through the school? Why everyone? I know you’re saying it speaks to everyone, but you’ve never been this flashy before.”

“Out with it Combeferre,” Enjolras frowned, recognizing his friend’s attempts at equivocation and subtle leading to a point. “If you have something you want to say, then say it plain.”

Combeferre, for his part, didn’t react with surprise or embarrassment. Quite the opposite, it seemed like he expected Enjolras to call his bluff.

“Very well, we all know this is for Grantaire,” Combeferre said, holding up a hand to silence him when he tried to protest. “We’re just not sure what your goal with it is; are you trying to apologize or get the final word by proving him wrong? Both times you’ve spoken to the man you’ve ended up in hideous arguments with him, and no offense, but you were insufferable for days after both. I’ve never seen anyone in your personal life affect you so much. So what is this about Enjolras? Really?”

Combeferre lowered his hand, allowing Enjolras the chance to speak again. But by this point it was too late, because he was speechless anyway. He hadn’t realized he’d been that unbearable to his friends recently, and yes, that was the point he was going to focus on because he couldn’t pretend to have answers for the rest. He couldn’t label what made Grantaire’s argumentative nothing-statements grate on him so much, or why he was so determined to find proof of actual belief within him.

But then he didn’t need to answer because the clock outside struck 5pm and before classes could be let out for the day, a fire alarm started going off in Old Main. Then the science building. And then it was every building. Fire alarms were blaring everywhere from classrooms, to student housing, to the Dining services.

The Amis had planned every detail of this event. They’d gotten permission from the town to use the park tomorrow night, and had collaborated with the local elementary and middle schools to accommodate for their arrival. So it wasn’t a last minute problem that caused them to garner attention like that. They could’ve easily gone through the school to get permission to use the stage and to hold a rally announcing Enjolras’ plan. They could’ve avoided the speeches altogether and had just put up posters advertising it. But that wouldn’t reach everyone.

The Amis had come up with the idea to use the fire alarm system as a means to rally the entire campus long ago. Unfortunately, they were all aware that it was a one-use plan. The administration might look the other way once, but twice was unlikely. So it had been a great struggle getting Combeferre to agree to use the idea for this rally. Enjolras hadn’t backed down though, and now he was glad.

Without a word, Combeferre and Enjolras hurried to the Quad, where everyone would be pouring out into. With a sigh of relief, Enjolras saw his lieutenants standing proudly by the wooden stage that is set up on the quad for graduation and other large events the college plans. Bahorel’s supposed connections with the janitorial staff had come through. There were several long tables off to the side where the supplies were set up. They had passed the first hurdle.

It only took a minute before everything started happening around them. People spilled out of the buildings and towards them with perplexed looks on their faces. Slowly, faculty started groaning and students were starting to snicker as they figured out what was probably going on. Enjolras took in as many faces as he could, but couldn’t find the familiar mess of black curls and huge blue eyes anywhere. It was probably a good thing too, he supposed. If he did spot Grantaire in the crowd, he wasn’t sure how his orator persona would change.

By the time most of the student body (about 4,600 students) had found their way to his tiny stage, Enjolras guessed that he had about five minutes to convince everyone before campus security or the fire department became a problem. With one last breath, he jumped on the stage and began speaking.

“Some of you know about the Day of Silence. Most don’t. Last year we held a Day of Silence at this college, but because we overestimated the awareness of the event, our advertising offered little explanation. We never clarified that the event uses silence as a way to protest the silencing of LGBT people, due to bullying in schools. Obviously, the turnout was far less than we had hoped. This year come April, I hope our turnout will be better.”

With the word “April,” Enjolras could see the crowd becoming confused. It was November, and no one understood why he would pull the fire alarm to have an impromptu rally about something taking place in six months. Enjolras continued.

“However, someone has recently brought to my attention that the Day of Silence isn’t enough anymore. People can hate, and judge, and inspire fear without words. Abuse can exist without words, but we still have more to talk about. College-run LGBT events have two purposes; it either tries to garner support or it tries to show support, never both. Somehow, we cannot escape the mentality that the gay community is a ‘them,’ and that their problems never reflect on ‘us.’ But that’s not the case.”

Enjolras stressed each of the words, aware of the finality of them. He wanted to venture into politics, and therefore every time he spoke publically he was committing to these arguments, and accepting them as his own for the rest of time. He had spent days trying to decide if he agreed with some of what Grantaire said, and if he did, how he could go about trying to make things better. Even when he knew what he could do, he had to debate whether or not to actually go through with it. Politicians play dirty. Someone could cut this speech and make it sound like he was bashing the Day of Silence, or any number of terrible things. After all, he had misunderstood Grantaire when he made his similar arguments.

But in the end, there had never been any contest. Enjolras had been made aware of a wrong in society. Once he saw the truth of a mentality, he could no longer avoid it. For better or worse, the arguments had become his own, and he could not betray them.

He scanned the crowd, trying to meet every person’s gaze. It was then that Enjolras saw him. The blond wondered how it had been possible for him to miss that head of wild black curls the first time he looked. Grantaire stood next to Éponine near the back of the crowd. His eyes were wide and he was staring right back at Enjolras, utter bafflement in his features.

Enjolras couldn’t explain the emotion that overtook him if he’d wanted to. The man, maybe a year older than him, didn’t seem to want anything to do with any of the Amis, and yet he was still here. Surely the cynic must hear his own words in Enjolras’ mouth. Combeferre’s questions came back to his mind. What was he trying to say with all of this? Enjolras still wasn’t sure, but all he knew was these words that he believed. Ignoring the proper techniques of public speaking, he stared openly back at Grantaire before continuing his speech.

“Bullying can never be fixed with just silence. Any victim knows that. Oppressors stand down when they are outnumbered, when all of us say I will not abide by this. This is not just the gay community’s fight. This is everyone’s fight. Every single person on this planet has something they are ashamed of. Something we think people will judge us for. Everyone knows the experience of living in silence, and silence isolates us. It’s time we started making some noise. The only way to stop those secrets, those truths, from eating us alive is to remove them from shame.”

He didn’t have much time now. By scanning the crowd, Enjolras could tell that the student body was interested, and even the faculty seemed curious. But fairly soon he would have an entire army of fire trucks distracting his audience, if Campus Security doesn’t get here first. Enjolras didn’t need this to become a spectacle, broiled down to gossip. He could speak all day about bullying in its many forms, but he needed to get to his point. 

“Tomorrow I want our college, and our town to take a stand against bullying in all its forms. Not just for LGBT pride, or racial equality, or freedom of religious expression without judgment, or the stigmatization of women’s body-type, not just for the minorities, but for ourselves. It’s time to stand in front of the world as one community and say that we will not stand for hate.”

He looked back to Grantaire, who looked lost in his words and wanted to be lost in the crowd. The cynic had recommended to him that if he wanted to gain support, he would need to attack the people he was trying to help. This was the most important part to Enjolras; he needed to show a uniting of humanity. He could see at the far end of the quad a Campus Security car pull up to one of the buildings, and two men step out.

“What I’m suggesting is a public, campus wide coming-out. There are t-shirts and sharpies on the tables. Everyone take one, and write on it their secrets, their fears. Tomorrow, everyone will wear them as more than just a symbol, but also a catharsis. For anyone interested in doing more, Les Amis de l’ABC have organized shuttles to visit the local elementary and middle schools to talk about bullying and discrimination in classrooms. Later tomorrow night, we’re going to end the event by releasing candles into the town lake. I hope to see you all there.”

With a small wave, Enjolras hopped off the stage and walked over to join the rest of the Amis, who were ushering people towards the tables filled with white t-shirts and sharpie markers. They were demonstrating what to do with a sample shirt Feuilly had made in advance, offering more information to anyone who asked, and explaining what sorts of things to write on their shirts. Simultaneously, they were also trying to blend into the crowds, to make it more difficult for Campus Security to single them out.

Enjolras knew he should stay and continue to rally the students and faculty around the table. Maybe even continue to talk about their plans at the elementary and middle schools the next day in further detail. Jokingly applaud the fire department when they arrive with Courfeyrac and Bossuet. Thank Bahorel’s friends in the janitorial staff for helping borrow and set up the stage. Instead, he turns to Jean Prouvaire and clasps a hand on his shoulder to get his attention.

“Can you cover for me for a bit? If Campus Security needs to give me a firm talking to, they can come find me.”

Jehan grinned a little too knowingly, then smiled and nodded. The blond tried to thank him, but before he could open his mouth, the poet shooed him away with a tiny “I’ve got it,” saying no more. He was suddenly very grateful that he’d approached Jehan.

Because if Enjolras is being honest, he has kept an eye on Grantaire since he spotted him in the crowd. Even when the crowd relocated to swarm the shirt tables, the cynic remained largely unmoved, Éponine at his side.

Enjolras took large purposeful steps to push through the crowds and finally approach the cynic. He had no clue what he was going to say, but he needed to have this conversation. That is, of course, if his roommate lets him, Enjolras amended. Éponine seemed open enough a few minutes ago, even responsive during his speech, but the moment she spotted him approaching the freshman tensed and took a defensive stance. The blond hadn’t forgotten her enraged threat from a few weeks back, and certainly didn’t want to test her resolve on the issue but he couldn’t let Grantaire disappear again. It wasn’t impossible to disappear in this college crowd, and the cynic had managed to elude all of the Amis far too easily. If he didn’t have this conversation now, he might never find Grantaire again.

Grantaire looked up at him, stunned. Or perhaps not. It was honestly difficult to tell the cynic’s emotions at the moment, not because he guarded them, but because his expression held too much. Grantaire looked overwhelmed, his absurdly blue eyes were practically anime eyes they were so wide. His head was tilted down and his shoulders were hunched, making him look far more vulnerable than he really ought to be. But he was looking up at him, and had yet to break eye contact.

“Can we talk?” Enjolras asked, looking directly at the curly haired man in front of him.

Éponine shifted next to Grantaire uncomfortably, and looked as if she was about to place herself between Enjolras and her roommate. Before he could find out though, Grantaire broke eye contact and nodded carefully.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said quietly. “Okay.”

Enjolras quirked his lips into a slight smile, and jerked his head to the side to indicate they walk away from the crowds. Grantaire still looked very small and uncertain, and far too raw for Enjolras’ liking, but still the cynic followed as he turned to walk towards the campus grill and coffee shop. 


	7. Tu Quoque

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! I don’t usually ask anything of you, like reviews. I generally like to believe my work can stand on its own, and don’t like crowding you with long author’s notes. But today is one day where I’m going to make an exception.
> 
> I just found out a few hours ago that there’s a law in Alabama that forces teachers to lie to their students and tell them that being gay (and homosexual activity) is illegal. Please, please, please, take two seconds out of your day to go to the petition website and sign! This can’t go on! Thanks!

Grantaire felt completely flooded. Everything moved around him as insubstantial as liquid, the seas of people all cresting towards the tables of shirts, the noise and words, the crowds. Lost, he was positive that he was drowning, and there was nothing to hold onto.

Éponine, damn her, had done this. She had pulled him from his job, safe in the kitchen of The Earl, and told him that he had no choice but to come with him that instant. Nervous but concerned, he had agreed and let himself be led. The moment that he saw the college though, he saw white and tried to pull away. He could feel weights pressing against his ribcage, trying to suffocate him, and his vision had gone blurry. He started asking Éponine why she was dragging him there, and what she wanted from him.

Classes were still in session, the last classes of the day. There were very few people milling about the lawn. The grass was starting to grow brittle in the November air and the leaves were changing. The leaves of the bizarre Ginkgo trees were starting to turn yellow, and the maples were turning orange and pink. Even so, he could feel a sharp asphyxia taking hold of him.

“R. R, look at me,” Éponine demanded, and he did. “It’s okay. Nothing’s going to happen to you. We were just invited to something here at 5. If you give it a chance and can’t handle it, we’ll leave. Okay?”

He couldn’t have been invited to some campus thing, because he knew no one on campus. He opened his mouth to speak, and half aborted words struggled to push their way through. In a kneejerk moment, understanding took hold of him. The only people who could’ve invited him to an event on campus were the exact people he had been trying to hide from. Grantaire stared at her in horror, briefly wondering how Éponine could do this to him.

But he didn’t have time to think, because suddenly the fire alarms were going off in every building. The ringing felt like hammers in his already rattled skull. And yet beside him, Éponine was looking around at the cacophony of noise and laughing.

“So that’s how they plan to get their crowds,” she said with a giggle. “Classy.”

Then she took Grantaire by the hand and all but pulled him further into the heart of the campus. Buildings were emptying into the grassy expanse called the quad, and hundreds upon hundreds of people were spilling out into the center. That in and of itself would usually cause Grantaire’s stomach contents to roil, but with the familiar boys standing on or around the oddly-located stage made him want to vomit.

“Look at all the people. They won’t even see us if we don’t want them to. But we were invited specifically. Let’s at least hear what they have to say.”

He couldn’t really resist now without calling attention to himself, so with tensed muscles and a tight frown, he let himself be led once again. They approached the crowds and watched, listening to the murmurs, laughter (“Enjolras and his group have finally gone rogue in their justice-ing”), and confusion.

But everything faded the moment that Enjolras stepped onto the stage. It actually hurt to look at him, standing up there in his red jacket with his eyes blazing like fire. Apollo in all his glory, always standing above them all. On a stage, in front of a crowd, the student leader looked perfectly at ease. The golden god was made for this.

Grantaire was sure he was about to go blind; staring into the sun was dangerous, after all.

His every muscle wanted to clench; he ran shaking hands through his messy curls, trying to calm himself. Of course, nothing worked. His body responded to his thoughts as if his mind was submerged in molasses.

 _Go live in your disgusting world, wallowing away in your own hopelessness._ Oh he wanted to. In that instant, Grantaire wanted nothing more than to do what Enjolras had told him. He wanted to run, to cry, to curl up into himself and never enter Éponine’s world again. He was comfortable in his little corner of the world, living his filthy life. Grantaire felt his skin burning, a constant reminder that he had no place here among the future’s great minds. His one protection was the anonymity the crowd offered.

Another human being shouldn't hurt so much with their very presence.

But then Enjolras had started speaking, and all reasoning flew out the window. Grantaire tried to cut himself off from the world, float away on the music of Apollo’s voice, and let the words carry him without meaning. But the moment he heard the words “ _Day of Silence_ ” he was wrenched back into his body, back to the present.

This was about him, about their fight. That’s why he was invited. The words could no longer drift together in the air; Grantaire clung to each one of them, breathing them in. It was possible that he would choke on the letters, because he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Out of Apollo’s mouth were his words. Of course, the arguments that he had made had been further analyzed and expanded; the conclusions were different, idealism shining through. And yet, Grantaire recognized them as his.

He couldn’t understand it. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung agape as he stared up on the stage. Enjolras’ passion was both fierce and soft. Decrying discrimination and bullying as he suggested the equivalent of a campus-wide hand-holding. It was ludicrous, and yet Grantaire wanted to cry. His eyes misted and his throat closed up; he had to bite the inside of his cheek hard to keep himself from falling apart.

Enjolras couldn’t know that with every sentence he swung and hit Grantaire’s sad little life over and over. The student couldn’t know how many chords rang true, playing a song that he knew far too well. Grantaire was trapped between the disdain Enjolras had shown him each time they spoke, and the loving words that he spoke with now. 

Even when the crowds had moved to swarm the tables, Grantaire couldn’t find his motor functions to move with them. Every instinct told him to hide in the crowd or otherwise turn around and escape while he could, but the molasses holding his mind had turned to honey. The sweetness flavored his every response.

Then Enjolras had found him, and was approaching him with an expression that he couldn’t quite assign a name to. The blond was guarded in his emotions; he wasn’t smiling but Grantaire didn’t see any displeasure or unhappiness in his face. It was all so overwhelming that he couldn’t respond at first.

Only when he felt Éponine tense beside him in her protector mode did he remember her presence by his side.

“Can we talk?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire wanted to cry, “ _Yes! Anything you want!_ ”

“Yeah,” he said instead, with a careful nod. “Okay.”

He felt himself being led away, towards one of the eateries on campus. His heart pounded and finally his brain was responding again, running overtime. What was that speech? Whatever Enjolras’ arguments had been, no matter what the event he was planning was, Grantaire knew that it was partially for him. There was no escaping it, no reasoning it away. He couldn’t tell if it was Enjolras with modified arguments, still trying to convince him, a strange apology, or something else entirely. Whatever it was, he had made sure that everyone in the college was there for it. Grantaire didn’t know what to make of it.

“You know, most of the fuckers at that table just heard ‘free shirt.’”

He winced the moment the words left his mouth, positive it would begin another fight. His shoulders were up by his ears, and he internally swore at himself for always saying the wrong thing. Instead, Enjolras turned to look at him with another twitch of the lips that almost resembled a smile.

“Well, I guess we’ll see about that tomorrow.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence before finally entering the college grill. Enjolras walked up to the woman and ordered a coffee before turning to look at Grantaire expectantly. After a minute of staring blankly back, he finally understood that the student was offering to buy something for him. He tried to shake his head, but a grumble from his stomach gave him away.

With all the stress he’d been under in the past few weeks, plus completely avoiding any bartending jobs, they had been tight on money, and he has been eating less. Grantaire hadn’t eaten since this morning and somehow Enjolras seemed to tell.

“He’ll have one of the sodas from the machine, and a grilled cheese,” Enjolras said to the woman, while handing her his student ID before turning to Grantaire. “Which do you want?”

“Um, I’ll have a Coke, I guess,” Grantaire said in a daze, accepting a tall paper cup as it was handed to him and going to the machine to fill it up. “I’ll pay you back…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Enjolras quickly said with a shrug. “I figured you’re not vegetarian, but didn’t want to take any chances. Is the grilled cheese okay?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Grantaire assured him hurriedly. “And you’re right. I’m nowhere close to vegetarian.”

They sat down at a table and waited for their number to be called. Until then, both fiddled with the cups in front of them and stared awkwardly at each other. This was the longest Grantaire had managed to go without pissing the younger man off, and he didn’t know any other way to keep it peaceful besides staying resolutely silent. Enjolras seemed to have other plans.

“You are a hard man to locate. We’re only about four thousand kids here; how did you hide away for so long?”

“I’m not a student,” Grantaire said before he could stop the words. Even so, he grimaced at them. Surely he must be violating some rule by being here. And yet, at Enjolras’ confused expression, he stupidly continued. “I share an apartment with ‘Ponine over The Earl of Sandwich shop. I work while Ep is off enriching her mind or some shit.”

With that Enjolras’ confused face deepened.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty one, finally.”

“But, you’re only a year older than me. You could be a junior. Why aren’t you in college?”

Grantaire snorted self-deprecatingly, then added a casual shrug. “I was a shit student in elementary school, so I’m really not suited for the college scene.”

He hoped he made it clear that this conversation topic really wasn’t up for discussion. At that moment, their number was called and he excused himself to go pick up his grilled cheese. His stomach made another grumble, so he took a bite on his way back. Bad idea. The presence of food in his stomach made the hunger more real, and he desperately wanted back to the table so he could devour the grilled sandwich in peace.

When he did make it back, Grantaire was careful to eat slowly and exercise manners so as not to freak the blond out. But he couldn’t help but take large bites. Enjolras seemed to let conversation slide by and gave him time to eat through the first half of his sandwich before starting a new topic.

“You know, for all the arguing we’ve done, I’ve yet to get a feel for your actual beliefs,”

“Don’t you remember?” Grantaire asked cheekily. “I believe in nothing. I’m incapable of belief.”

Enjolras seemed to remember their argument and his words because he looked acutely uncomfortable all of a sudden. Grantaire would almost use the word embarrassed, if it wasn’t such a blasphemy.

“I don’t believe that,” Enjolras said quietly, but with resolution.

It made Grantaire’s skin prickle, just bordering on this side of painful.

“Then I’m sure to disappoint you,” he said casually, hiding the sharp pain he felt at saying those words.

“Even if it were true, which I refuse to believe,” Enjolras said, adding the footnote forcefully before continuing, “you have a talent for questioning my beliefs, and arguing until I can hardly tell right from left anymore.”

“Ah yes,” he said bitterly, and looked back down into his half empty cup of soda. “An agitator.”

“No, a Socrates,” Enjolras said sharply, causing Grantaire to look up in surprise.

“No…” Grantaire tried to deny.

“You walk into a bar and start criticizing people’s beliefs, making them question what it is they truly know about what they’re saying. And it either collapses an argument, or makes it stronger,” Enjolras says pointedly, using a voice that Grantaire was starting to recognize as his I’m-making-a-point tone.

“I’m no Socrates. I’m not driven by a goal, or belief, or fuck, even a hobby,” Grantaire said, lowering his eyes.

A man like Enjolras would hold a lot of respect for the Greek dissenter. He could never let the blond believe he was anything like the philosopher who questioned Athenian politics and society, challenging the assertion that might equals right. If only he was such a man, he might be worthy to stand at Enjolras’ side, but he could not hide the truth of who he was.

“At most I’m a Dionysus,” he continued, “An embodiment of wine and drunken revelry, of madness and ecstasy. I follow only hedonism.”

“Which is why you eat as if it’s your first meal all day and work to share an apartment with a college student.” Enjolras shot back.

Grantaire blushed under the observations, unsure how to respond to that. He dropped the second half of his grilled cheese (mostly crusts now) back on the plate and picked up the soda, trying to hide the pleased grin and slight blush behind the cup.

“If you wanted, what would you do?” Enjolras asked, seemingly switching the topics.

“Doesn’t matter,” Grantaire shot back immediately, not giving himself time to think about the question, or give Enjolras room for doubt, “No use pining over pipe dreams.”

“Tell me?”

Grantaire groaned inwardly. How was he supposed to stay composed with Enjolras practically imploring him like that? He looked far too innocent with his interested curiosity, nothing at all like the wrathful statue of marble that he had known a few weeks ago. With those clear blue eyes staring at him from an angelic face, haloed by golden waves, he couldn’t find the strength to avoid the answer, no matter how dangerous it was.

“Well, I like art, I guess. Sketching and doodling mostly, but painting too,” Grantaire finally admitted with a sigh, content to let his messy hair attempt to hide my face. “I’m not all that good though, so it doesn’t matter anyway.”

Enjolras sighed and wrapped his hand around Grantaire’s forearm. Underneath him, Grantaire tensed at the contact. If the blond noticed he didn’t mention anything, but he did retract his hand. Grantaire was shocked by how relaxed their conversation had been, how natural friendly exchange felt after years of avoidance. He was finishing the remains of a sandwich that someone else had bought for him, and talking about the things that interested him as if they actually mattered. Both were things that hadn’t happened to him in a few years at least. Grantaire didn’t have friends.

Sure, there was Éponine, but she was a constant in his life. Since he was nine years old he could rely on her to be there the same way he could rely on pancakes to be delicious or the sun to rise. The concept of another person looking out for him, liking him, even caring for him to a slim extent was something he’d always been raised to mistrust.

And yet, he was comfortable. The thought was terrifying.

Enjolras pulled a single white t-shirt out of his coat pocket and offered it to Grantaire with a hopeful smile.

“Draw a design for it. And come with us to the elementary schools tomorrow.” Enjolras asks plainly.

“I’d be a horrible influence on the kids,” Grantaire tried to reason away nervously.

“I want you to be there.”

And with that, Grantaire’s ability to argue vanished out the window. He knew he should be stopping this. Enjolras was stupidly putting belief in him, a trust that Grantaire couldn’t hope to live up to. The look of disappointment that would grace that angelic face one day will be heartbreaking. The day Grantaire ruins this (whatever this is) will be a day he’s not sure he’ll be able to cope with. And yet, all he hears is the student’s words. Enjolras wants him to be there, with him.

“Okay,” he said, dooming himself.

An approving smile stretched across the blond’s features, as if Grantaire had just done something wonderful. Enjolras presses the shirt into his hand, and asks for his phone, so he could plug in his information. Once Grantaire had a new contact in his cell phone and Enjolras had sent a text to himself, they both stood up, threw away the empty plates and cups on their table and headed out. Enjolras needed to find what was left of his impromptu rally and help the rest of the Amis clean up, and Grantaire needed to find Éponine.

As Enjolras took off with a quick wave at a slow jog back towards the quad, Grantaire watched him go in a daze. He wasn’t entirely sure of what had just happened, and was too scared (and bizarrely, too content) to name the unusual warm feeling spreading in his chest.


	8. Ipse Dixit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's shirt design is actually based on an amazing piece of digital artwork that I saw on Deviantart a handful of years ago. The work is called "Brain Storm" by alexiuss, and you should all check it out. Here's the link:
> 
> http://alexiuss.deviantart.com/art/Brain-Storm-42400691
> 
> As for everything with the people who's backstories I start exploring more this chapter... I'm sorry.

After their riskiest and most public rally in their two years as a club, the Amis found themselves with about four hundred extra white t-shirts, one hundred eighty sharpie markers, and absolutely nothing to do before tomorrow. They could’ve gone to their respective dorms and gotten ahead on some studying or found ways to be productive, but nope. Courfeyrac decided impulsively that they were all going to decorate their shirts together, and so he declared a gigantic coloring party at his and Marius’ dorm, and everyone came over.

Thirty minutes later, Courfeyrac decided that he probably should’ve thought this through better. There were tall piles of t-shirts on just about every surface, and the room was starting to smell like sharpie fumes. Joly was sticking his head so far out the window that Bossuet and Feuilly were actually wrapped around his legs and sitting on his feet. Just in case.

Of course, Enjolras would eternally have studying to do, so he had taken a shirt (along with an extra two hundred. He said he’d pick up the rest of the extras tomorrow, and boy, he had better) and left after a few minutes. Which was perfect in a way; it left the rest of the coloring party free to talk about what the hell was up with Enjolras and Grantaire.

"You do remember that this is Enjolras we're talking about, right?" Bossuet asked and slammed his ass back down on Joly's foot when the pre-med's heels started to lift off the ground. "You know, the Virgin Mary anarchist?"

"I'm with Baldy over there," Bahorel agreed with a nod. "Our fearless leader barely acknowledges that women exist, and I'm pretty sure he's never been caught checking out any dudes either."

"Are we honestly back to speculating about Enj's sexuality? Didn't we agree to drop this last year?" Combeferre asked as he reentered the room (because someone needed to step out every couple of minutes, or risk getting high on marker fumes) and sat back down on the floor.

"Yeah, but that was before our innocent Enjy started rallying for the little blue eyed cynic," Courfeyrac said with a teasing southern drawl, dragging out the word rallying as if he was saying sodomizing.

A few of the other Amis chuckled, even drawing a snort out of Combeferre.

"The agreement was that Enjolras was considered asexual and aromantic until proven otherwise," Marius piped up, for once sounding like a lawyer and not just a self-inflated boy. "I would call his behavior in the past several weeks new evidence."

"Seconded," Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Joly called out in a sloppy unison.

"Well, it may not be sexual, or even romantic feelings between the two, but there's definitely something that can't be ignored," Jehan piped up, glancing away from his shirt where he was drawing creepily accurate depictions of obscure flowers.

Always diplomatic, that boy.

"So we've got four for yes, two for no, and one abstention from Jehan. Come on Comb, what's your take, really?" Joly said, sticking his head back in the window. "You're his roommate after all."

Everyone else in the room took Joly's presence as a sign and closed all of the sharpies and turned on the many electric fans Feuilly had provided Marius with from the manufacturing company he worked at. Most of the time it drove Courfeyrac up the wall, but today he was grateful. It was time to take a break from the marker fumes.

"I think that whatever Enjolras identifies as, we should respect it. As for these recent events with Grantaire, I doubt Enjolras himself fully understands them, but when he does, he can put his own name to them."

Jehan stood up with his shirt to step out of the room as Bossuet snorted and said, "That's a politician's answer, not a philosopher's."

“Plus, he’s never given us any indication as to how he identifies. I think that leaves it open to a free-for-all guessing game,” Feuilly added cheekily.

“That’s really not at all how it works…”

"Hey guys," Jehan interrupted. The poet was shaky on his feet. "I'm feeling a little light-headed."

The room fell silent and Courfeyrac immediately sprung up to be at his friend's side. A moment later Combeferre was there as well, supporting his other arm.

"It could just be the markers," Jehan said faintly, even as he swayed in Courfeyrac's arms.

"Maybe," Courfeyrac conceded and nodded at Combeferre to let him know he can handle this. Slowly, he began to walk the poet out to the hall. "Have you got your Tylenol?"

"I'm okay," Jehan mumbled with a chuckle, even as Courfeyrac helped him to a hallway wall, where he could comfortably sit down.

"Of course you are," Courfeyrac assured him with a snarky grin. "But I don't want you to be okay. I want you to be comfortable, happily drugged, and dozing off on Ellie by the end of the hour."

Ellie was the name of the gigantic stuffed hippo that took up more than half of Courfeyrac's bed. It was the size of a fat German Shepherd, near impossible to travel with, and he loved it to pieces. Marius and the others had made fun of him for it, until they learned how cozy the thing was during movie nights. Now, Ellie was the most coveted pillow in the group.

Jehan blushed and laughed slightly before nodding in acquiescence. With lethargic movements and unfocused eyes, the poet reached into the large pockets of his massive sweater (this one was a deep forest green) and pulled out a tiny mint box with his Tylenol. After he had downed two, he smiled and looked back up at Courfeyrac.

"I can handle the dizziness; it's mainly the headaches that get me," he said lightly, but hints of truth seeped into the boy's voice. "Damn head injury."

In a raw moment of pure respect, Courfeyrac reached up and cupped the side of Jehan's face in his hand, brushing the old scar on his temple that caused this occasional trouble. It was hidden by layers of thick, dark blond hair, and had long since stopped bothering the poet frequently, but it was always there, and thanks to the occasional lightheadedness, Jehan could never forget it.

Courfeyrac couldn’t forget the nausea that overtaken him about two months ago when the Amis had first witnessed Jehan’s dizzy spells. They were all hanging out at their gigantic table in the back of the Café Musain and the poet had stood up to put his coffee mug in the dishes bin next to the counter. One minute they had been debating about American interference versus isolationism, and the next there had been a shattered coffee mug on the ground, and a freshman about to pass out. Joly had run to him and had done a quick analysis, ignoring Jehan trying to laugh and swat the pre-med’s hands away.

Joly had said it looked like he had hypotension, but Jehan promised that he didn’t, and pulled back his shaggy hair to reveal a nasty crescent moon shaped scar about the width of a nickel. He’d told them about how he’d gotten it when he was fifteen and the scar tissue still occasionally agitated it.  His doctor had told him that there wasn’t much to be done, and had written him a prescription for a kind of industrial strength Tylenol.

Courfeyrac had found out the full extent of the story only a week after that accident.

"Is this what's going on your shirt?" He couldn't help but ask.

Once again, Jehan chuckled and nodded before unclenching the shirt still in his hands and spreading it out for Courfeyrac to see. On the front, there were doodles of flowers (not just a circle and five “c” shaped petals either. Accurate depictions) and tiny quotes from poems in the freshman’s neat cursive. In the middle of the shirt however, was three magenta letters in a block text. It read “ _Fag_.”

“What about yours?” Jehan asked, and nodded to his hand. Courfeyrac followed his gaze, only to realize that he also held his shirt in his hand.

He laughed at how distracted he must have been not to notice that. Without a word, Courfeyrac chuckled humorlessly and held up the shirt for Jehan to read. His was much simpler. No flowers, doodles, or tiny blocks of text; just the words “In the Closet” written in black with a pink, purple, and blue bisexual flag inside the “o.”

“Do you ever plan to come out to your parents?” Jehan asked with a sympathetic half smile on his face. His eyes were starting to clear up and refocus, as he drifted back to alertness. Soon enough, he would start to look drowsy and would start snuggling into the huge sweater he was wearing, but for now alert was good.

“Well, yeah. I want to. I have a good relationship with my parents, all things considered. But despite their liberal candy coating, they are a bit conservative in their ways,” Courfeyrac explained sadly. “Most people kind of get a feeling as to how others will react to it, right? Well, I genuinely don’t know with them.”

It hurt to admit that despite his purportedly good relationship with his parents, particularly his father, he couldn’t get any kind of read on them.

“I guess I’m kind of lucky that I got something I can hide then,” he said with a false joviality that both boys saw straight through. “After all, I do generally prefer women. Maybe they won’t ever need to know.”

Courfeyrac sighed, and decided to just fuck it. He moved away from sitting in front of Jehan, monitoring him, and scootched over so his back was to the wall as well, and they were sitting shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee. He started fidgeting with his hands, cracking his knuckles to work up the nerve to ask.

“Why’d you do it?” he finally said. “You must have known…”

“Oh I knew,” Jehan said with a laugh, and lightly tipped his head to the side to bonk Courfeyrac’s playfully. “I grew up in a house where my Pop called me _Son_ and I called him _Sir_.”

Of course, that meant nothing and Courfeyrac knew it. The poet had admitted to Courfeyrac just how close of a relationship he’d had with his father before coming out. How the man had shifted so roughly from best friend to threat upon the confession.

“Then why?”

“I wanted my parents to know their son,” Jehan said with a shrug, as if it were just that easy. Maybe for the poet, it honestly was. Out of everyone in the group, Jehan always seemed the most sweetly optimistic and the most innocent. The unspoken _even if it meant losing them_ hung in the air bitterly.

Courfeyrac didn’t know how Jehan managed to hold onto that sweet innocence, seemingly the baby of the group, and yet easily one of the closest connections to these causes that the Amis fought for. He didn’t think he could stand it if he became a poster child for all of those terrible stories everyone heard about on the news and across the internet. Sweet Jean Prouvaire, the poet with flowers weaved into the yarn of his sweaters, could have been a poster child, if only he wasn’t so emotionally balanced.

“You shouldn’t have faced them alone; someone should’ve been there with you,” Courfeyrac said, and bumped his knee lightly against the younger boy’s. “You know, I think this rally’s going to be good. It’s important.”

“People need it sometimes,” Jehan agreed with a smile. The Tylenol was starting to take effect, the drugs already making his voice bleary. “A catharsis.”

With a grin, Courfeyrac helped the freshman up. The boy was steady on his feet again, but drowsy all the same. Instead of breaking up the party so someone could take Jehan home, he lead him back into the room (a chorus of sharpies clicking shut followed their entrance) before letting the poet curl up in his bed. Like any of the Amis by now, he went immediately for Ellie, and by the time Courfeyrac had caught himself up on the conversation, and what little information they had managed to dig out of Combeferre, Jehan was already asleep.

\-----

He needed a word. Grantaire stared, frustrated, at the back of the t-shirt that was mocking him with its blankness.

Enjolras had asked him to draw a design for the shirt, and he had. He had gone full out; borrowing a flattened cardboard box from the recycling at the Earl to use as a drawing board to slip the shirt over, and spending two hours working on the concept sketch using a pencil, and occasionally a beat up box of colored pencils to remind himself what color scales he wanted to work with for each element of the painting.

It had felt weird going into the box of art supplies that he kept buried in his closet. For the first year after they had arrived in town, Grantaire hadn’t found a spare moment between working and sleeping to even think about opening the art box. After that, it had just become a habit. Occasionally he would go into the box and pull out his old sketch book and pastels and doodle a little, but never much more than that.

And of course, there was that one day about a year ago when he had snuck into an art class at the college, and had been allowed to use some of the fancy paints, and even a small canvas. The work had come out okay, far from the best in the class, but decent. Afterwards, he had been scared by the implications, and took off with his tiny canvas. He hadn’t entered a classroom since.

Opening the box and really looking through the contents had felt like entering another world. In a way, it was. Grantaire lived so differently now than he had a few years ago when he’d lived with his parents. The sheer variety of his supplies surprised him. Of course, he was far from spoiled back home, but if a birthday or holiday was coming up, he’d almost always ask for art supplies, or money to buy them himself. Because of that, the box was filled with sketchbooks, colored pencils, pastels, charcoals, nice paints, a large variety of paintbrushes, and several other necessary supplies. It was a treasure trove that he could never afford to spend money adding to anymore, but he had spent half an hour just playing with everything before actually settling down to conceptualize the design.

The final sketch came out looking nice, although the minutia did give him pause. He would have to work with mostly his smaller brushes to pull it off, but it was okay. The image was set in a metropolitan city area, displaying tall buildings, billboard advertisements, food stands, and cars. The focus was on the sidewalks, where people were walking and going about their day. In the center though, was a man hunched over himself, clutching at his skull while a dark storm swirled over his head, consuming him. The entire scene was set in grays, and sepia tones except for the storm, which posed a contrast, using bright yellows and burnt oranges to signify its power.

Grantaire found that he was actually excited to try transferring his idea through paint onto the shirt. But first, he needed to deal with his little “coming out,” which he’d decided to delegate to the back of the shirt instead of the front. Many words came to mind; words that chewed away at him regularly, and words that left a dull aching blow in his stomach. Too many words.

 _Hopeless_ and _cynic_ were both words wielded by Enjolras only weeks ago. Both were banners that he carried himself. But the words had lost their edge by now.

 _Disappointment_ and _failure_ stung like tiny needles, repeatedly burrowing under his skin and refusing to go away. No matter how much time has passed, he can still see the upset faces of everyone he’d ever let down.

But like a low drum, his mind kept returning to one word. _Dropout_. They all thought he was a student, and when he’d explained to Enjolras that he wasn’t, the man had been appalled. Like, how could he not be pursuing a higher education and seeking to enrich his mind? He was utterly preposterous to the student activist, and Grantaire hadn’t even hinted at when his education had ended. He had yet to become the prodigal burnout in their eyes. He really should let them know, just in case they had any delusions that he was anywhere close to their kind of people.

He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Thirty minutes later, Grantaire had the shirt board propped up in his lap, and was working on the sky, and merging the vivid colors of the tornado with the dulled tan tones of the rest of the world. On the back of the shirt, in black sharpie, the word “alcoholic” was written in bold.

It was a cop-out, he knew. He had accepted the label years ago, and even treated it as a term of endearment at times. He was risking nothing, and hiding from the intent of Enjolras’ entire rally, but he couldn’t do it.

He hadn’t even noticed how much time had passed until Éponine walked through the front door after finishing her shift at the Writing Center. Both of them had taken off work tomorrow for the elementary school trip, so Éponine had pulled extra hours tonight.

“Wow,” she said with genuine surprise when she spotted him sprawled out across the little kitchen area. “I haven’t seen you painting in months. What brought this on?”

Grantaire smiled and used his arm to brush hair out of his face, probably smearing tan paint across his forehead, before opening up his arms. His best friend grinned back, dropped her backpack, and came over to pull him into a hug. When she was finally in close enough vicinity, he wiped the pad of his thumb, still smudged with maroon paint, across her cheek. She squealed and rubbed at it, further spreading the mark into her face.

“Asshat,”

“I couldn’t resist,” he said with a cheeky grin, before pulling her into a real hug. She ended up sitting in his lap as he showed her the concept sketch, as well as what he had so far. “What do you think?”

“It’s awesome. But why exactly…”

It then hit him that he hadn’t really filled Éponine in on the events of the surprise dinner he’d had with Enjolras. When he’d found her, she was rushing to the Writing Center, and only barely had time to help him navigate out of the campus before rushing away. Of course, she had sent him a text moments later demanding that he reveal all later, and asking if they were doing the elementary school thing. He had texted back an affirmative, and resolutely avoided looking at the three texts that followed.

“When I talked with Enjolras, I may have mentioned that I liked to paint,” Grantaire said, drawing out as many words as possible to delay getting to the point.

Éponine still cackled in laughter anyway.

“Ooh! You like him, don’t you?” she mocked lightly. “You think he’s a sexy Greek god, and you want to conquer him.”

Grantaire really didn’t want to hear this. So instead of commenting, he just stood up and walked to the fridge to grab a beer, taking great pleasure in the sight of her falling on her back.

“So, you’re not going with the writing-a-word prompt?” Éponine asked, taking the shirt board in both hands and staring at the work in progress.

“On the back,” Grantaire said after a moment, and buried his head in the fridge, just to hide from whatever Éponine’s reaction would be.

He heard the sound of her flipping the cardboard over, then winced at the following sigh.

“That’s what you chose, R?” Éponine asked, disappointment in her voice.

Grantaire frowned as he popped open the cap to the beer and took a swig. He couldn’t handle hearing that tone from her, of all people. Especially now. Especially with this.

“Why not that?” he defended moodily.

“There are so many better words that you could’ve chosen. I know you can think of more than me, but I can name a few,” Éponine scolded angrily. “Why can’t you at least try to give this a chance? The entire thing was made for you, after all!”

Nervous energy crackled underneath his skin, and Grantaire placed the beer bottle down next to the sink so he could clench his hands into fists by his sides. All of the doubt from a few hours ago, the fear, rose up and threatened to envelop him again. She didn’t have to recite what was at stake, he already knew it.

Sometime around the end of elementary school, he had found a motto so groundbreaking (well, he’d thought it was at the time) that he burned it into his brain, and repeated it every single time he let his parents down, or some idiot shoved him in the halls and called him a retard. It had become a promise to himself; it only hurts if you care. And he had spent most of his childhood carefully shaping himself to not believe in anything.

But for the first time in so many years, someone was offering them something to care about, in the form of a small group of students. Éponine didn’t have anything to worry about; like them she was smart, quick-witted, and passionate. She would fit right in and not even notice his absence. Him on the other hand… Grantaire couldn’t claim to own any of those traits. He could feel the stakes pressing on this tentative _thing_ that he might have the chance to possess. Even though he didn’t deserve it, he couldn’t keep himself from wanting it.

 “It’s too much Ep,” he said wretchedly. “He’s asking for my presence and I’m there. He’s asking for my painting, and I’m showing it to him. It’s too much! Too much to ask of me to give! I can’t do it, ‘Ponine.”

Éponine sighed and stood up to face him, looking inexplicably too tired and too old for a college kid. The slight lines around the corners of her eyes and the corners of her mouth weren’t laugh lines. For the millionth time he felt guilty. Guilty for the life they lived, for the luxuries they couldn’t afford, and for the mess she had to deal with every time he fell apart. She had many more reasons to be fucked up than he did, and yet she was usually the one taking care of him. She didn’t even own a real bed.

“It’s supposed to be a good thing for you, R. Not for anyone else. Admitting it is supposed to stop it from tearing you up inside,” she said sadly, as if he didn’t know that.

“I can’t let it go, Ep,” he said with just as much sadness. He wanted to be able to escape all of this, but it felt never-ending. Still, he offered a condolence to her by adding, “Not yet.”

Taking a shuddering breath, Éponine nodded in understanding and sank to the floor with a murmur that Grantaire couldn’t quite catch.

“Sorry?” he asked.

“Well I am,” she repeated, and looked up at him defiantly. “I’m done with fear.”

For one dreadful moment of panic, Grantaire thought she was talking about him, and was terrified of what Éponine was going to try to make him do. Only when he caught her pointedly looking sideways, and setting her jaw in frustration did he understand that she was referring to herself. And with that, a wave of compassion rolled over him.

“Ep, what does your shirt say?” he asked softly.

She shuddered through a breath again before walking up to the kitchen counter, grabbing at a crumpled ball of clothing near the silverware drawer. With only the slightest quiver in her lip to give herself away, she shook the shirt out before holding it up so he could read it. Across the chest and stomach in large bold letters read the phrase “ _Business deal benefit_.”

“Oh ‘Ponine,” Grantaire said softly, sadness overwhelming his features. It took him less than half of a second to cross the room and pull her into a hug. She wouldn’t cry, she never cried. Instead she just stood there, pressed into his worn shirt, as he just stroked her back gently, and continued to hold her. Eventually she even hugged him back, and allowed herself to shake slightly.

Many hours later, after he’d finished the painting on the shirt and left it hanging to dry, he pulled himself into their shared bedroom to find Éponine curled up in his mattress pad. Even though she hadn’t slept in his bed since they had lived with their parents he didn’t hesitate to climb in right next to her and cuddle up to her in her sleep. 


	9. Argumentum Ad Passiones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone had a fantastic Day of Silence yesterday! Or if you weren't able to participate, that you still got to see it. Like I've said before, it's really amazing to see when a large group of people get together for it. In the spirit of the Day of Silence, here's the last chapter of Lost in Fallacy, with Enjolras' big event. 
> 
> The next installment of the series will be up soon. I'm far from done with this 'verse.

Grantaire first started to suspect that something was up when he stepped out onto the street to head to the Café Musain for work. There were posters everywhere that hadn’t been there yesterday; at least, he hadn’t noticed them yesterday. Of course, he never put in the effort to try and read posters, but this time he almost wanted to, because he can guess what they say.

He was torn between wanting to laugh at Enjolras' optimism, or cry at it. It was one thing to ask people to donate their time to a cause. People can do that because they can smile, feel good about themselves, and flaunt their claim that they helped. They like to believe their goodness can be measured in their deeds. But Enjolras wants to prove a very different point. He's trying to show everyone the plight of the gays by asking them to make public their biggest fears and deepest secrets. And people won't do that. They are, by nature, beings of survival.

His painted shirt with his fake confession weighed heavy, like lead in his pocket as he approached the Musain. And yet, that weight all but vanished when he turned the corner to see his boss opening up the store.

Musichetta was wearing a white t-shirt with writing on it. Even with the long black peasant skirt under it, it was bizarre to see her in something so normal. Usually it was those hippy/forest sprite skirts on top of white blouses and German dirndls shirts that she somehow made modest instead of salacious. The contrast practically screamed out at him

"Mornin' R," she calls out to him before seeing his clothes and catching the corner of a white t-shirt in his pocket. "I know it's not the usual dress code but we're fucking dress code today. Come on, let me see your shirt!"

She unlocked the door and held out her arm grandly, gesturing for him to go inside. Speechlessly, he did. Just yesterday, a bright eyed college student was handing out shirts and suddenly there was someone wearing one? It was one person, but his head was still spinning that this small group of kids had reached out and affected his job.

Musichetta spun in a circle in front of him before tugging at the bottom corners of the shirt to stretch it out like a canvas.

"What do you think?" she asked jokingly.

Oh. He was supposed to read it. Grantaire's face morphed into a scowl as he tried to decipher the single word in front of him. Four letters. It shouldn't be this hard.

A single bark of laughter and a swat on the arm broke his concentration.

"Oh quit it R, it doesn't take you that long to read the word _slut_." She spun around and showed him more words in the back with a large arrow pointing in both directions. "And look on the back. _I'm with them_."

It didn't entirely make sense to him, but the words were raw and honest. Even in her laughter, he could sense apprehension. A strange protective feeling rose in Grantaire as she spun for him. His boss was always spinning; it was one of her little quirks. Musichetta would twirl around the kitchen to grab things, skip outside to the chalkboard by the door to write the specials, and hum Billy Joel as she counted the checks for the day.

With her laid back renaissance faire fashion, her sweet demeanor, and her adorable Brooklyn accent, he couldn’t imagine anyone daring to insult her. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to insult her. Sure, he might tease her about the accent, and ask her to repeat herself whenever she says ‘coffee,’ but this was different. Even if he didn’t know the context, Grantaire was shocked at the older brother defenses that rose in him at the thought of the word _slut_ on her shirt.

“Have people said that to you?” Grantaire asks, even though she’d already skipped off to start taking chairs down from tables, and he’s already started turning on the coffee machines and pulling the pastries out of the freezer and setting them up near the ovens to cook. 

She froze with a chair in her hand and stared at him for a few seconds before exploding out in loud words and elongated syllables.

“I didn’t… I mean, I don’t tell most… but I thought… well it’s been so… you know I trust…”

“You don’t have to tell me,” he assures her with a laugh. “And careful there, your Brooklyn was showing.”

She sashayed over to him and pulled him into an unexpected hug. For several moments he froze, unsure of what to do before relaxing hugging her back. It was Musichetta; the most harmless being on the planet. His boss who had apparently chased off a large group of her regular customers for him, despite the fact that none of them came in during his early morning shifts.

“No, I trust you. Most people just get weirded out, so I don’t really tell people about it. But we’ve worked together for about two years now, and I want you to know.” She said, and went back to getting the shop set up for the morning. He slid the croissants into the oven, and came out to stack the coffee mugs on the tray next to the coffee machines, waiting patiently for her to either continue or leave it.

“I’m in a triad relationship,” she finally said. “I’m dating two men, who are also dating each other. It’s not just a threesome thing either, it’s a real relationship.”

Grantaire paused momentarily in his mug stacking before continuing again without a hitch. It wasn’t what he was expecting, but now her shirt made perfect sense. He thought back to the introductions at the Corinth and remembered the hypochondriac and the bald guy who shared a girlfriend. He wondered if their shirts matched hers.

“Do they treat you right?” He asked seriously, looking at her.

“They’re both wonderful. I’m crazy about them.”

“And they don’t mooch more free coffee from you than me?”

Musichetta laughed at that. “No one mooches more free coffee from me than you, R.”

“Well good,” Grantaire said, cracking a grin. “Can’t have anyone taking advantage of your generosity more than I do.”

She came up and enveloped him in another surprise hug then. This time however, he was more prepared for what to do, and returned it fairly quickly.

“You’re not a slut. Everyone else is just stupid,” he whispered in her ear before he pulled away.

She beamed at him, then spun away to go fill the napkin holders. They finished the pastries and shelved them in the display cases quickly and efficiently. Then finally, before the shop opened for the day she made him change into his shirt. After everything so meaningful that his boss had just trusted him with, he felt like even more of a coward than before. He let her stare at his painting, which he was still much too proud of and then coo at the word alcoholic on the back for a few seconds, then hurried to divert her attention to the time. As always, they wished each other good luck on the morning shift, then unlocked the door and flipped over the welcome sign. Just a hair before 6 am.

Most of the customers they had during his shifts at the asscrack of dawn were business men at the beginning of their commutes. There were a few handfuls of store owners, teachers, and professors from the college, and the occasional student. Either way, very few of the people he saw wore shirts; none of the businessmen for obvious reasons, but some of the teachers and students. Even a couple of the shopkeepers wore them. That made maybe one out of every thirty customers, but it still thrilled him whenever he saw someone wearing one.

Before he knew it, it was 11:00, and Éponine walked in to pick him up at the end of his shift. She was standing proudly with her long hair in a high ponytail, wearing her white t-shirt and proclaiming her past to the entire world. Upon seeing her, Musichetta walked up to greet Éponine. Without words, without context, the two women glanced at each other’s shirts and pulled each other into giant hugs, rocking back and forth.

Grantaire couldn’t help but stare at the display of acceptance and support between the two. He deserved to feel left out, he hadn’t stepped up the way they had. His shirt was a cop-out, and he was a fraud. He didn’t deserve that safe environment that Enjolras wanted to create with this entire thing.

If someone hugged him today, they hugged him as Grantaire the alcoholic. Not Grantaire the fuck-up, or Grantaire the idiot, or even Grantaire the gay (although he got a bit of a Tolkien-inspired chuckle out of that one). Somehow they were not hugging as Éponine the business deal benefit and Musichetta the girl with two boyfriends; the two most important women in his life seemed to be hugging just each other. Just Éponine and Musichetta.

Watching them, he couldn’t help but loathe his cowardice.

But suddenly, he didn’t have time for regret because Éponine had gotten hold of his wrist and was dragging him back towards the college campus at breakneck speeds. All he could think about then was how he really needed to talk to her about her tendency grab his wrists and physically pull him by his arm whenever she wanted to get him somewhere, because it really did hurt. Of course, even as he thought it he knew he’d never mention it to her because she’d been doing it to him since they’d first met. After more than ten years of conditioning, he could sometimes anticipate it and hold out his wrist for her.

“The shuttles don’t arrive until 11:30, what’s the rush Ep?” he called out to her as he rushed to keep up with her pace. She was jogging briskly now, which mean that he had to run to keep up with her. If she decided to start running, he’d need to start sprinting.

One of these days, he needs to get into the whole exercise kick. Of course, that would mean he was trying to be healthy, and if he wanted to start down that long, long path a lot of his other habits would have to go as well.

“Third period classes let out in less than ten minutes, and I want you to see it!”

“See what?” he shouted back as they passed the college sign and entered the campus. Thankfully, Éponine took that as a sign to slow down to a brisk walk and Grantaire took the opportunity to double over and catch his breath. He definitely wasn’t wheezing at all. He suspected that she slowed down because the Ginkgo leaves covering the sidewalk could slide under their feet, and she knew that if he could fall and crack his head open, he probably would. And they really couldn’t afford a hospital visit at the moment.

Éponine led him to the side of the Student Union, right on the edge of the quad. From this vantage point, he had eyes on almost all of the classroom buildings, and could see one of the freshman housing buildings in the far distance, across the campus.

“Everyone’s in classes now, or asleep. But the quad’s about to be flooded again, and I wanted you to see it,” Éponine said gleefully.

She finally let go of his wrist, only to capture his hand with both of hers a second later. Éponine was smiling in a way that he rarely saw. Not her mischievous smirk, or sardonic amused face, or even the fluttery grin she got when talking about Marius. Something was genuinely pleasing her, and she was excited to share it with him. It hit Grantaire just how rare these pleased smiles were on his best friend’s face, and just how beautiful they made her look. He knew all too well what her face looked like dark and haunted, or clever and wicked, or sad and sympathetic. Very rarely did her expression just look so soft and cheerful.

In a moment of pure self-indulgence, he wanted to join her in that relaxed joy.

“See what?” he repeated himself, frustrated.

She didn’t answer him though. She just pulled out her phone and started counting down under her breath, looking around as she did it.

The bell rang, and Éponine grabbed his shoulders and spun him around so he was facing as many buildings as possible. Grantaire could just imagine the swarms of students all bolting out of their classrooms, and outside towards their next class or the cafeteria.

“See what these insane students did for you,” she said in his ear, as she continued to hang over his shoulders.

And then he sees it. Hundreds of students started pouring out of the buildings, shifting and scattering paths as they exit, heading every which way. The sheer numbers were overwhelming and unbelievable. They walked in small and large groups, or by themselves. Couples walked hand in hand, and friends walked arm in arm. People were waving to acquaintances as they pass each other, and going up to greet and hug friends. Everyone seemed so fused to each other. A casual game of Frisbee started on one patch of the quad. Grantaire stared at the masses in droves unable to avert his eyes. For a moment, he’s afraid that he’s suffocating, that it’s all too much and he can’t breathe. But then a second later the rising panic in him calms down because he realizes that yes, he can breathe. There are floods of people threatening to crowd and overwhelm him and oh God, he can breathe perfectly.

Almost all of them are wearing white t-shirts with imperfect sharpie writing on the front.

It’s too much.

Grantaire takes a few steps forward towards the swarm, unable to take it all in.

It’s not enough.

For the first time in as long as he can remember he wants to throw himself into the crowd, and take in every single person. He wants to be part of it, because whatever he’s witnessing must be taking place on a different planet. Someone’s taken his entire understanding of the human race, and rewritten it completely. This is an entirely different species before him, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

There are tears in his eyes and trails of moisture down his cheeks, and fuck, he’s laughing. It’s not much, just a few chuckles escaping through choked sobs and thick breaths, but bubbling up from it is a kind of joy he’s forgotten existed.

Grantaire wants to paint it.

He reaches backwards blindly, unable to tear his eyes away from the hundreds upon hundreds of students and faculty in their white t-shirts, and eventually connects with Éponine’s hands. Without much thought, he tugs her hand towards him, and she gets the message to approach him.

“What do they say?” he asked, his voice was wet and cracked on the last word, but he doesn’t care. It’s all so big, and he wants to take it all in and remember it. He can’t even find the energy to curse his own failings.

“That one says _the binge-purge prom queen_ ,” Éponine says, pointing subtly to a curvy redheaded girl. She turned and pointed to a tall, heavy-set boy. “And that one says _last one chosen_.”

As Éponine continued pointing out kids and reading their shirts to him, Grantaire got more and more worked up. Each one was so different and meaningful, and he had never wanted to approach so many perfect strangers and hug them before.

Normally, he hated people and tried to stay away from them whenever possible. People were just crowds, and crowds just offered the full buffet of human ugliness. He supposed that there were good qualities too somewhere, but that’s what made man vulnerable. People hate to be vulnerable and naked in front of each other, so they just end up clothing themselves in their vanities and nasty disguises. But these people… no, this new species was behaving like a different animal. Whether or not they noticed the bizarre crying man on the corner of the quad, they were sharing with him something intimate and personal. They were no longer a crowd of people, but an expanse of persons. And Grantaire never had the capacity to truly hate a person.

“What about that teacher over there?” he asked, pointing to a middle aged man carrying a leather briefcase, indisputably a professor’s bag.

“That one says _faulty genes_.On the back it says _can’t conceive_.”

As he heard more and more, Grantaire found that he couldn’t hate or fear these people anymore. Not now, not when they were like this. He didn’t know who they were doing it for, if they were trying to support the gays, or were pressured into making it because everyone on campus was put on the spot last night, or if they were doing it for themselves, but these new humans suddenly carried a fragile sort of beauty to them as well.

And then he thought of Enjolras. That fiery-eyed Apollo who told him in their second meeting that he believed that a group of people could come together and make something incredible. Grantaire had told the blond god that it was bullshit, an impossible dream. He said that people may convene for one selfish reason or another, but they don’t sacrifice anything.

And then Enjolras had turned around and made this happen. Thousands of people were sacrificing their claims to safety, and offering themselves up for the masses. And the end result was a campus full of hugging students and open expressions. Like with Éponine and Musichetta, the only thing in the atmosphere was acceptance and love. He hadn’t imagined it was possible, but the scene in front of him was overwhelming all of his senses, until he couldn’t help but believe it. Enjolras had done that. Grantaire’s head swam as his best friend’s earlier words returned to him.

Enjolras had done this for _him_.

Éponine practically had to drag him away from his spot at the corner of the quad, even when the field started to empty and students found their way to classrooms. Only when she pointedly reminded him that the shuttles would be arriving soon, and that everyone was waiting for them could he move.

He didn’t want to. Even in his happy stupor, he knew to burn this image into his brain forever: the moment Apollo managed to make people into a softer, kinder race. Grantaire’s mind wouldn’t be silenced, and it told him that they couldn’t stay this way. Soon enough, they would return to the same terrifying, pathetic creatures he knew them to be. He would go back to hating and fearing them tomorrow maybe. Even this single incredible act couldn’t make him invest in the human race.

But that’s why he let Éponine lead him away from these temporary humans. Tomorrow he would hate every stranger that he currently couldn’t help but love. He would hide away from them like he always had. But Éponine was dragging him towards a man who could heal the world for a blink of an eye. No matter what he felt about people, Grantaire could never again doubt the student who intended to lead them towards a brighter future.

How strange, Grantaire marveled as he wiped at his cheeks and eyes, to believe in something after so long. It wasn’t the soaring faith in humanity that this Apollo had hoped to give him, but it was more than he’d had in years.

And then Éponine had dragged him into a parking lot, and there were three shuttles (shuttles meant big ass white vans with the college logo on the side apparently) with the Amis, and another six students milling about. There was Enjolras, in his own white t-shirt, holding a clipboard and telling people which shuttles they were assigned to. Issuing commands and clicking the ballpoint pen open and closed repeatedly against the side of his collarbone, Enjolras unknowingly dazzled him.

“Hey,” Enjolras called out when he spotted them. With a few words, he handed the clipboard to Combeferre, and trotted over to them. His posture still had air of authority, but his mouth was quirked upward in a tiny smile. His eyes were burning through Grantaire’s skull. “You made it.”

“Yep, here we are,” Éponine said cheerfully. “Give us jobs.”

“Right,” Enjolras said, and turned away from him to face Éponine. “You two are in shuttle one if I’m remembering correctly. Combeferre should have more information and your nametags as well.”

Éponine shot Grantaire a smirk and practically bounced away so she could either get their information from Combeferre, or so she could talk with Marius and desperately try to get him to notice her. Either way she left him alone with Enjolras, and he could already feel the world starting to spin underneath him.

“Doesn’t your clipboard need you… or something?” he asked dumbly.

All Grantaire got in response however, was the blond student’s eyes trained downward. It took him a moment to make sense of it, but finally he remembered the shirt he was wearing, and the design he’d promised to make for Enjolras.

“Combeferre can handle it,” Enjolras said dismissively, before returning his attention to Grantaire’s shirt. “Is that your design?”

“Yes.”

“You should be doing this,” Enjolras said immediately, without any trepidation or uncertainty. “This says it all.”

Grantaire wanted to flush in pride at the painting, but the word on the back of his shirt wouldn’t let him ease. Enjolras saw it; he must’ve. Even through the two layers of shirts, the letters felt like they were burning into his flesh like acid. Could Enjolras tell it meant nothing? Could he see the deception? If he did, why didn’t he mention it? It was all Grantaire could do to shift the conversation away from himself.

“And yours?” he asked with a light air of teasing, glancing downwards to read the student’s shirt. Three words, and then a question mark. No matter how much he willed himself to understand faster, he still struggled to pick apart every letter, and make them make sense together. Strangely enough, Enjolras allowed him the time to work it out.

_My father’s son?_

“What does yours say about you, Enjolras?” he asked, suddenly softer.

Enjolras’ face immediately darkened, and Grantaire briefly wondered if he’d done something terribly wrong by asking such a question. But then, the blond ducked his head and nodded slightly before looking up to meet his eyes again. Enjolras was struggling with this too, he understood.

“After our second conversation I was made aware of a propensity that I can have for being thoughtlessly cruel,” the blond said, shaking his head when Grantaire tried to refute it. “The only other person I know with this specialty is my father. I now have to call into question to what degree I have become my father, and how much I must now monitor myself around others.”

“You shouldn’t censor yourself; you speak so well,” Grantaire blurted out before he had the chance to think about it. “What is your father like?”

Enjolras stared at him, wearing an unusual expression. Grantaire wished that he could decipher that marble face. It was always carefully schooled to professional neutrality, but he thought he was starting to see the trick. The man’s lips were pursed crookedly, the only indication that he wasn’t just a marble statue. If only he could translate what it all meant.

“He’s a wall street tycoon; one of the 1%. My father’s every choice is part of a meticulous ploy for money and image,” he said with clipped words, and Grantaire could hear the disdain escaping out of the harshness of the consonants. “Including me.”

Grantaire wanted to apologize, but somehow it didn’t feel right. There didn’t seem to be any remorse or sadness that came from the admission. Whatever lack of emotion Enjolras’ father had for his son, the feeling seemed mutual.

“It upset me once, but hasn’t bothered me for a long time.” Enjolras followed up upon seeing his expression. How strange that the abrupt words seemed to be phrased like reassurance.  “His cruelty is towards the people he cannot see below him. It seems mine is towards the people I can see.”

“Then his is selfishness and deliberate blindness. Yours is just a short temper,” Grantaire said with a self-deprecating smirk. “No one can begrudge you annoyance at irritating people.”

Enjolras’ eyes flashed, and for a moment Grantaire thought he was about to argue. Whether the blond wanted to contend Grantaire’s dismissal of Enjolras’ fears, or dismissal of himself, he’d never find out. Before the student could open his mouth he was cut off by a short girl with long blonde hair and huge brown eyes.

“Hi, you’re Enjolras, the one who gave the speech. We talked over email last night?” she said excitedly, brushing her hair back with her hands. “I’m here for the kids thing, and I wasn’t sure who to talk to, so I figured I should go to the one I recognized. Is it obvious that I’m a freshman?”

Her voice was sweet and melodic, and she didn’t take a breath between any of it. Grantaire tried really hard to think of a word to describe her, because ditz was wrong but he couldn’t find another combination of energetic and doe-eyed. He couldn’t even be mad at her for interrupting.

“See the one in the glasses with the _Future Waitstaff of America_ shirt? That’s Combeferre. He will get you sorted into your group,” Enjolras said helpfully.

“Awesome, thanks,” the girl replied excitedly, and turned to follow Enjolras’ directions before abruptly spinning back around.

“I almost forgot,” she said sheepishly, and pulled a lime green sharpie marker. “I didn’t mean to, but I took this from the table last night. That’s a thing that happens sometimes. I’m walking and then I realize I have something that isn’t mine in my pocket. But nothing big, I mean, I don’t make off with TV’s or anything. Just pens and post-its mostly; my desk is unbelievable. But this is yours and I didn’t mean to. I was using it, and then it was hooked to the inside of my jeans. I hope you didn’t miss it.”

By now, Enjolras’ eyebrows would’ve been in his hairline, had this been anyone else. As it was, the stoic blond’s lips were quirked in that small amused smile.

“After last night, I doubt I’ll miss a sharpie again in my life. There are several dozen on my desk right now. It’s yours.”

And you would’ve thought that Enjolras had just offered the blonde freshman the arc of the covenant with the beaming grin she gave him in turn before turning around and heading back towards the rest of the group.

“That was interesting,” Enjolras said to him in a vaguely amused tone of voice.

And Grantaire would’ve made some snarky comment in response, if only his thoughts weren’t madly swirling elsewhere, the clouds of his mind darkening and crashing in on themselves.

“Future waitstaff of America?” he asked, trying to disguise the question as mere curiosity. “Why does Combeferre’s shirt say that?”

Of all people, why Enjolras’ trusted friend? The thoughtful, intelligent right hand surely had an impeccable GPA, a chosen major or two, and a clear life path. It gnawed at him to think that he should be considered on par with any of these students, but the idea that one of them was lowering themselves down to his level?

“Oh, he’s a philosophy major.” Enjolras said passively, as if that explained everything. “He’s likely to become a professor, but with that major it’s a running joke that he’s spending money to be unemployed.”

“A joke?” Grantaire asked vaguely. His head was spinning, and his hands itched for a drink that wasn’t there.

“Well we all joke about it, even Combeferre himself. But we can tell it really freaks him out, especially in this economy.”

Grantaire knew their society was fucked up, but it crawled under his skin and filled him with such a lurching sense of wrongness to believe that people like Combeferre would ever be mixed in with people like him, and that they would be viewed as equals.

“Oh,” was all he could say.

Enjolras, thankfully oblivious to the gloom that had snuck up on him again, had to go back to his important clipboard duties. So he ushered Grantaire over to the rest of the group, and excused himself to help Combeferre.

It didn’t take more than a minute for Grantaire to find his way back to Éponine, practically fusing to her side.

“Can we leave?” he asked quietly, not expecting much.

“As much as I’d love to give in this time, no,” Éponine said, grumbling silently. “Why?”

Grantaire didn’t know how to explain to her that the world was already shifting back to the way he knew it to be. There weren’t any words to explain the hurt that it left behind to see something so beautiful flicker out of existence, leaving familiar ugliness behind. People were returning to their original state of being, and it was too soon. His throat was closing up again, and as familiar as he was with gasping, his lungs missed the air.

“Just nervous,” he said finally. “What upset your smile?”

“Remember little Miss. Sweetheart, golden girl I’ve been hearing about for the past few months?”

“Ghost girl from the quad?” he asked, immediately understanding that she was back to Marius, and his sad little crush.

“The lovers have found each other at last,” she said irritably.

“I’m sorry Ep,” he says honestly, putting away his own bitterness to pull her into a hug. “Marius is a moron.”

“Yeah, the biggest,” she muttered sadly into his shoulder.

She wouldn’t break down. Éponine rarely ever broke down, and he could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen her cry.  She would go quiet and moody, and would refuse to dwell on it. No matter how many heartfelt conversations she had with Grantaire when he got trapped inside his head and riled himself up into a state of panic, she always refused for herself. In her own words, she wouldn’t do any “weepy violin moments.”

“But this is your day, R,” she said when she finally pulled away. “Come on, I’ll read you everyone’s shirts.”

Grantaire didn’t know how to say that he almost didn’t want to hear them anymore. So he just let her talk.

At first she explained how the entire thing was going to work. That there were three groups of six going to the middle school and the two elementary schools. Each group would have one club member paired off with a non-member, and those two would go to classrooms together. Of course they were in shuttle one, with Enjolras, Combeferre, Marius, and the blonde girl whose name was apparently Cosette. Without a doubt, Marius wanted to be paired with Cosette, so Grantaire would probably go with Enjolras, and Éponine with Combeferre. 

Grantaire let the bitterness in Éponine’s voice slide by without comment, and waited for her to continue.

“So anyway, back to shirts,” she said. “Feuilly, the Polish student’s says _Homeless back home_. Your drinking buddy over there, Bahorel’s says _dumb jock_ …”

Grantaire followed the names with his eyes, looking at each activist as Éponine mentioned them. Even though some of the luster had faded from the entire thing, he was still struck with the simple words that these boys were offering so freely to the world. Ignoring the need for context, Grantaire felt a warmth spread through him at the words. It was even different from the sheer wonder back at the quad. He knew these people, somewhat. They wanted him, to a degree. They gave themselves to him in a way he never had expected.

Suddenly, the fun guy he drank with, who loafed through his classes was also afraid of being seen as the dumb one. Joly and Bossuet had to hide a taboo relationship. Courfeyrac, the loud and proud bisexual somehow considered himself in the closet. Marius thought himself sheltered and oblivious. What with Feuilly’s shirt and what he thought it meant, it baffled Grantaire how the Pole was even here at all.

He let it wash over him and calm him until finally, it was time to pile into the shuttles. He glanced towards Shuttle One, just in time to see Enjolras about to climb inside. The student somehow caught his gaze, and Grantaire thinks he saw a slight flicker of a smile cross his features.

He was okay. He would be okay.

Grantaire stepped into the shuttle.

\-----

It was far from optimal. Éponine still had to watch Marius and his Cosette stare longingly into each other’s eyes on the way over to the elementary school. But it could have been much worse. Combeferre was a nice enough guy, and seemed genuinely interested when she answered his many, many questions.

Seriously, it seemed like the bookish sophomore’s plan had been to bombard her with routine “getting to know you” questions until one of them blossomed into actual human conversation. She’d had to go through her adjustment to college life, her current teachers, and her prospective major before they eased themselves into a normal conversation. That is, of course, if normal conversation consisted of ethical questions in journalism.

But miraculously, it worked. Eventually, they transitioned away from school and towards more natural talk. By the time they were approaching their first classroom – a class of second graders – they were immersed in an intense debate about their theories for the third season of Game of Thrones. (Both ignored the fact that the books were already out, and they could easily dig around for spoilers if they wanted.) Combeferre’s ears had turned bright red, and Éponine wore a classic smirk.

When they passed through the doorway into that second grade classroom, their heated discussion died away immediately, with one last hiss of “this is far from over” from Éponine. Then they were ushered to the front of the classroom by the teacher, and introduced to the group of seven year olds.

“Hi, my name is Combeferre, and this is Éponine,” he started professionally, and Éponine couldn’t help but wonder if he forgot that he was talking to second graders. “We’ve been invited into your class to talk with you about bullying and discrimination.”

A little boy raised his hand, and Combeferre nodded at him to indicate that he could speak.

“What’s that?” the kid asked.

Éponine sucked in a gulp of air, then took over.

“Discrimination is what you think about somebody, based only on what you see. For example, Combeferre wears glasses. Now, what other things could you tell me about him because of it?”

The room was silent for a few seconds, all of the kids unsure if their answers were the correct ones. And then a voice broke through the silence.

“That he’s a nerd!” one of the boys in the back shouted as he raised his hand and practically climbed on top of his desk.

A couple of the kids around him laughed.

“What else?” Éponine asked, provoking them.

That boy broke the ice, and receiving positive encouragement from her finally made the dam collapse. Suddenly, ten hands were waving in the air.

“He can’t see without them,” a girl contributed, and held out her arms while squinting her eyes to demonstrate what she meant. A few more kids laughed at the impersonation.

“He’d have to crawl around on the ground to find them!” another boy added on with a bark of laughter.

“He’s a four-eyes,” added another girl.

That’s what she was waiting for. Éponine held up two fingers, the universal method for silencing grade schoolers. Almost immediately the chatter died down and the class was repeating the gesture.

“Thank you. That was an experiment. I asked you what you knew about him based on the fact that he wears glasses. Now, I noticed a few things. For starters, there are four kids with glasses in this classroom, and not one of them raised their hands. They should be the leading experts here on people with glasses, so why didn’t they speak up?”

The classroom was dead silent.

“Okay, let’s hear from one of these experts now,” at random she pointed to a girl in the first row with round pink glasses. The name card on the girl’s desk said Stacy. “What do you know about Combeferre because he wears glasses?”

Stacy looked up at him with wide eyes and rubbed at her cheek with her arms before murmuring “He needs glasses.”

“Exactly,” Éponine said with a reassuring smile and a friendly wink before standing up and addressing the class again. “For those of you who couldn’t hear Stacy, she said he needs glasses. The rest of you with glasses… Mark, can you think of anything else you know about my friend here based on the fact that he wears glasses?”

Mark, also in the front row shook his head defiantly. All of the kids with glasses sat in the front row, and Éponine just started to wonder for the first time if that’s why kids with glasses are considered nerds.

“No?” she asked. “Why not?”

“Because we’re different!”

Éponine actually took the time to walk up to Mark right then, and fist bump him before she did anything else.

“That’s discrimination,” Combeferre cut in for her. “Éponine secretly divided the class into two groups of people. Those who need glasses, and those who don’t. And the people without glasses made guesses and jokes about the people with glasses. Which do you think was seen as the better group?”

This time, Mark raised his hand. “The kids without glasses.”

Éponine went to fist bump him again as Combeferre continued talking.

“Discrimination at its simplest could be subconscious. You don’t realize you’re doing it. Like right now, if I asked the kids who spoke up how they came to the conclusions they did about people with glasses, I bet they wouldn’t know. Maybe TV shows always give the nerdy character glasses. It’s harmless there, but look what it created in the classroom today.”

“The secret that no one ever realizes though,” Éponine said to the class conspiratorially, “is that I could come up with a ton of different ways to split up this class into good groups and bad groups. And without a doubt, I could make every single person wind up in a bad group if I wanted to. None of these things makes any difference. We’re all just people, and these good groups and bad groups aren’t real. So why is there discrimination and bullying?”

The class fell silent.

Éponine looked over the faces of these tiny kids in their tiny desks, and all she could think of was Grantaire. She can still remember the tiny little boy with the too-huge eyes and the uncontrollable black curls of hair, hiding away in the corners of the playground and hoping nobody noticed him. She remembered how many times Brandon Walters and his cronies called him a retard, and laughed at him until he buried himself in shame and self-loathing.

The day he shut down and told her for the first time that “it only hurts if I care,” she wanted to punch him until he snapped out of it. However many years later, and Grantaire still hadn’t snapped out of it. It only hurt to speculate, but Éponine couldn’t help but wonder if a program like this could have helped him.

“It feels good to be in the good group,” Éponine supplied for them.

Grantaire could’ve been in college she thought with a wince. He could be taking art classes, paint always caught on his skin and in his hair, with pastels layered under his fingernails. She tried to imagine this happier, more relaxed version of her best friend. A lazy smirk on his features, a brush behind his ear, and a hot boy on his arm. Nothing more to prove to anyone.

She couldn’t see it.

Around her, Combeferre was ushering the entire class towards the rug in the back of the room, and helping the class of seven year olds get in a circle. All of them had their name cards with them so the two of them would be able to call them by name if they needed to. Quickly, Éponine rushed to insert herself back into the class, and sat down next to Combeferre. She was surprised when Mark all but raced over to sit on the Amis’ other side, sending a “come at me, brah” sneer to anyone else in the class who would dare question it. In that instant Mark reminded her hilariously of Bahorel and she couldn’t help but grin. Had the little boy had the chance, Éponine could almost see him trying to induct Combeferre and the three other eyeglass-wearing kids in the class into some sort of Brotherhood of the Bifocal.

“We’re going to go around now and everyone’s going to share something about yourself that you’re afraid others might judge you for, or something that could put you in a separate group from everyone else.” Éponine said when everyone had settled into their place and stopped fidgeting. “I’ll start. When I was little I didn’t live in a house. My parents owned a motel at the edge of town, and I didn’t want any of the kids in school to know about it. I didn’t know what they’d say about it.”

On their own, the children started to go around and share their own things. Some were simple and childish like she had expected, but others definitely weren’t. The way one boy talked about being laughed at by the other boys when he cried over his dead dog in math, or the girl who was afraid of being isolated because her family couldn’t afford some of the trendy things that the other girls had shocked her. For some accounts there were actually choruses of apologies or reassurances from the other kids in the class. Éponine and Combeferre didn’t have to do anything. She didn’t know why she had let herself forget just how mature kids could be, but this brought it back with a startling clarity.

Nothing was quite so shocking though, as the story a young Arab girl named Rajiya told the class. Just seven years old, and she sounded like a small adult.

“Sometimes, I’m embarrassed to be Muslim,” she said nervously, looking directly at Éponine as she said it. “Even though it’s part of our culture, I find myself hating the traditions I was raised with. I don’t want to wear my Hijab because people treat me differently with it on. My Mama and I go to the mall and the people at the booths don’t approach us and try to sell us things the way they do with everyone else. Kids look at us and ask their parents if we are terrorists. I’m not even in middle school yet; I don’t understand how I am their enemy already.”

The room fell silent once more. Éponine and Combeferre shot each other significant glances, trying to figure out what to say. It was too important to let it slip past unacknowledged, but neither of them had prepared for something like this.

“That’s exactly why we came to talk to you,” Éponine said finally, wishing she knew where she was going with this. “Discrimination is a snap judgment, but often it leads to prejudice. Prejudice is a stupid hatred for people because of who they are.”

Combeferre was looking at her nervously, unsure if this was too heavy for second graders. Behind him, the teacher of the class looked downright panicked, maybe on the edge of calling security to drag her out. She didn’t need to take an education class to know about the controversy about what schools should teach versus what should be left to parents to explain. But Éponine hadn’t brought it up. Clearly, it was already a subject that second graders had to deal with. And wasn’t the point of this to make a difference in the way these children think? She turned to Rajiya and focused on her, ignoring the teacher, and Combeferre, and all their concerns.

“A few bad people who happened to be Muslim committed a terrible act, and because of that many Americans see the two as connected. Sometimes, people just want a group to blame, but that’s not your fault. Islam is a beautiful religion, and you should be able to wear a hijab proudly.” She then turned and caught every second grader’s eyes. “We’re here to talk to you, because you can stop this. Discrimination and prejudice can be taught, but so can acceptance. Let’s finish the circle.”

Their teacher looked like she was either about to faint or explode, but Rajiya was beaming, so Éponine couldn’t give a crap. Yes, parents were supposed to choose when to talk to their kids about this sort of thing, but Éponine was currently working with a group of what she could only call revolutionaries. She might as well cross some lines.

The circle continued for the last few kids left. Meanwhile, Combeferre shot her a look that said _you really shouldn’t have done that, but off the record it was the right thing to do._ The slight nod of his head even said _I’m glad that you did._ And somehow, his support made it all better. Because Combeferre was supposed to be the careful anchor of the group, wasn’t he? This was the guy who kept Enjolras from going overboard. Éponine could’ve slept perfectly at night without his approval, but she was glad to have it.

When the last seven year old had finished speaking, the teacher stepped in immediately, looking as if she was trying to control the situation, and put an end to it as soon as possible, before Éponine crossed over any other lines.

“That was wonderful. Class, everyone thank Combeferre and Éponine for coming in to speak with us today.”

After a chorus of thank you’s they waved goodbye and started to walk away. They didn’t make it very far though; a few steps out the door and Éponine felt a tug on her shoulder. She barely had time to process seeing Rajiya standing in front of her before she suddenly found herself in a hug, the tiny Muslim girl wrapped around her waist tightly.

“Thank you,” Rajiya said as she squeezed her.

Éponine remembered Grantaire, face hidden in her stomach much like Rajiya was doing now, mumbling “ _I’m gay_ ” to her. Éponine hugged the girl back, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

But then she thought of Azelma; the little sister that she never really put in the energy to know. Azelma, younger child who their Mom was always quicker to protect. She would be around sixteen by now, and Éponine hadn’t thought about her since she left. She had never reached out to her younger sister because she never felt any reason to. Their mother took care of Azelma, so it wasn’t her job, and Éponine was too busy looking after herself. Did their mother still protect her from all of the jobs that their father used them for, or was she pulled in as well?

What’s worse to remember though, what she still thought about with uncomfortable frequency, was the child who got the worst treatment from the Thénardier family. She wondered about her brother, abandoned in the middle of Manhattan on a family business trip. Gavroche had been three years old at the time. By now, her brother would be almost fourteen.

Azelma had been her mother’s responsibility, but Éponine knew that her Mom held no love for her son. The woman had only wanted daughters, and her father didn’t care about any of his children at all. Gavroche had been hers to look after, until they left him in the city.

And then he was no one’s.

Éponine couldn’t believe herself when she felt her eyes getting misty, now of all places. With this young girl in her arms, putting so much trust and gratitude in her, she didn’t know what to feel. She didn’t know who she was thinking of, or how it was possible to feel so protective over a child she’d known for less than half an hour. Éponine chewed on the inside of her mouth, refusing to let Combeferre and this school see her cry. That was a rare occasion, saved for the safety of her couch, and Grantaire’s old bed back in their hometown. She waited for Rajiya to loosen her grip on her middle before she bent down to look the girl in the eyes.

“The world is a strange place for people who are different. But you’ll grow up brave. Don’t be embarrassed of who you are. Don’t let them take your identity from you. Not ever,” she said with a surprising intensity, her voice thick.

Éponine couldn’t even tell who she was speaking to anymore. Rajiya looked back at her gratefully, and above her stood her best friend who grew up in shame, her little sister who grew up sheltered, and her baby brother who grew up a mystery.

Rajiya nodded at her, and hugged her again, this time wrapping her small arms around her shoulders. Éponine hugged back quickly, then told her to go back inside to rejoin the rest of her class. Finally, she stood up and faced Combeferre, who met her gaze evenly.

“Well, some parents may not be happy with the school.”

“Fuck them. We had to say something.” Éponine responded immediately.

“You made a world of difference to that girl,” he said with a smile. It was a reassurance, and maybe even held a little pride in it.

They walked towards the next class on their list, another group of second graders. Apparently Marius and Cosette had to talk to Kindergarten and first graders, Éponine and Combeferre got the second and third grade, and Enjolras and Grantaire were dealt the fourth and fifth grades.

Éponine could easily bring the conversation back to Game of Thrones, but she was still reeling from all that had happened in the second grade classroom. Those children who sounded equally young and much too mature still hovered in her mind. They lived ordinary lives, but they already sounded too old. She tried to imagine what her brother looked like now. Would he have Éponine’s raven hair that she’d supposedly gotten from her father’s parents? Maybe he would have the muted brown hair that her father and sister shared, or even the shockingly strawberry blonde of their mother.

“Do you guys do stuff for the homeless, like children and stuff?” she found herself asking.

Combeferre, to his credit, doesn’t seem fazed by the abrupt shift in conversation or the seemingly random mention of homelessness for very long. Only a split second of confusion hangs over his features before he nods and offers the information.

“We do food and clothing drives around the college and the town on months without large holidays, because that’s when they need them the most. After all, there are homeless shelters, and orphanages, and foster programs, but the system is never water proof. We also plan trips to soup kitchens when we can,” he explains helpfully. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s nothing,” Éponine shrugs off quickly, not wanting to be caught thinking about the brother she lost.

But she couldn’t help the sensation of warmth that came over her at the words. She remembered seeing Les Amis de l’ABC at the college club fair during Orientation week and laughing at them. They had seemed well intentioned, but naïve and too overzealous. Maybe she had spent too long hanging out with almost exclusively Grantaire, but they had been talking like their actions could help fix the world and affect change in policy. Now though…

She sent out a quick text to Grantaire. **i may be getting into this amis crap**

It was possible that he was in one of the classrooms with Enjolras, finding their own ways to talk about discrimination. It was also possible that he was struggling to read her sentence, because he might be too embarrassed to use the phone’s Reader to listen to the text in front of Enjolras. Either way she pocketed her phone, not expecting a response back, and walked with Combeferre to their next classroom.

By the time they left that second classroom after repeating the exercise, Éponine found his reply waiting for her.

**me 2**


End file.
